


Paroniria

by factsnotfiction



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/factsnotfiction/pseuds/factsnotfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is hurting, feeling the pain of his unrequited love for his king, Arthur. Sleep evades him and he uses magic in an attempt to drive his insomnia away, but it only make things worse. Horrible nightmares plague him, his memories, for Merlin can no longer simply dream. Merlin pines for his king, Gwaine tries to save Merlin from himself, and all the while Morgana, Mordred, and Morgause plot Merlin’s demise. Trying to escape the living nightmare he’s found himself in, Merlin secretly leaves Camelot (with only his white mouse Sebille for company) to confront Morgana and save the world, but things don’t go according to plan. Arthur finds out he’s left and follows him, catching up with him on the way. Their adventure helps Merlin and Arthur rediscover their friendship and their loyalty to one another. Merlin tries to save Arthur, as Arthur tries to save Merlin; and they’re both as stubborn as always. Can they save each other without destroying them all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paroniria

Paroniria

 _“Men heap together the mistakes of their lives,  
and create a monster they call Destiny.”  
John Oliver Hobbes_

Merlin smiles, he is happy for them - he truly is. Merlin is so good at burying his feelings deep down inside himself, sometimes he forgets they’re there at all. Sometimes. But other times, _all the time_ , Merlin is walking around half the person he used to be. Not even a full half. He had picked up and saved every shard of himself he could, and managed to fit himself together and piece back what fragile version of himself he had left. Though he was still filled with cracks and sharp jagged pieces left untended and unsmoothed.

But still Merlin smiles, he always smiles, just like he used to. Still no one notices, no one sees the way his smile falters and slips when he thinks no one is looking. His face crumples and his speed picks up as he rounds a corner and collapses against a wall, sobbing. Merlin’s hands are the only things holding him upright.

He glances around first of course; to make sure he is alone before he breaks down. It would just not do for the king of Albion's court magician to be seen sobbing in the streets of Camelot. It would be seen as a sign of weakness in the very foundation of Camelot, as well as its very core. Merlin represents himself, the king, and the entirety of Albion, and she cannot afford to be seen as weak.

Particularly in a joyous time such as this one, for the king finally has a queen. She is beautiful, just, and kind - everybody loves her. The people celebrate for their beloved king, as his happiness is their own. The land thrives, the ground is fertile; it is the beginning of spring, the flowers are blooming after a long winter, and life is finally beginning to flourish again. Everyone is happy, joyous in fact, to be alive in the midst of what is no doubt the golden age of Albion.

It is only Merlin, it seems, that is still stuck under the ice and frost, slowly withering away.

The rain begins to fall and the king and queen head back inside the palace hand-in-hand. They are followed by a procession of villagers and noblemen alike. The banquet would begin soon and the celebration would go on late into the night. Merlin alone is standing in the rain in his black, official robes. It is fitting that he is dressed for a funeral instead of a wedding.

Merlin feels as if he is dead.

His tears mix in with the raindrops that slide down his cheeks and his world is blurred through wet lashes. He doesn't mind. He's been living life in a blur, a haze, all these years anyway. This is no different. The images flash through his mind and the feelings, those _dreadful_ feelings, scratch and tear their way back to the surface again until Merlin feels them clawing at his throat. He wants to scream, he wants to yell, but he stays silent.

He doesn’t seem to do anything but these days.

Merlin thinks and reminisces of a time when Arthur, merely a prince then, would have walked out into the rain to scold Merlin, calling him an incompetent idiot and telling him that he had better not get Arthur sick when he came to work the next morning. Arthur would have sat next to him, worry coloring the fake annoyance that tinted his voice; he would have asked Merlin what was wrong. Then the prince would have tried to help in that bumbling, unsubtle, completely endearing way of his to find the root of Merlin’s problems and will it away.

No one comes now though; no one ever comes anymore. Merlin has learned how to swallow the bitterness in his throat and the sting behind his eyes but the pain in his chest never goes away. He hears laughter in the air, light and happy; the music is loud and celebratory. _Everything is just so goddamn happy._ Merlin hears his king’s joyous laughter over and over again and he’s not sure if he can take the pain anymore.  
Merlin’s eyes flash gold as he slides easily behind Arthur’s eyes. For a moment, seeing things as they were through his eyes, Merlin feels like nothing has changed. Arthur is friendly with the nobles, he jokes with his people, his _friends_. But most of all his eyes scan the room, searching for something, _someone._ Merlin pulls away then, from Arthur and his eyes that see everything. He goes back to his own, blinking and dazed, where the rain falls and stick to his lashes.

The court sorcerer feels something rise in his chest: a light, airy emotion he hasn’t felt in years. Who is Arthur looking for? Merlin stands; a step is taken and another and then another. He is soon at the open castle doors once again; he cannot help but think how much has changed since his first years in Camelot and how nothing has really changed at all. A small, _real_ smile graces Merlin’s face. It is bittersweet, sad and broken from years of endless rain, but one sunray now pierces through the gray. He is dripping water onto the stone floors but he couldn’t care less. Merlin is shivering and his teeth are chattering but all that matters is that little piece of sun that made it through the dark.

Arthur turns towards him and Merlin’s little patch of sunlight grows steadily larger as he sees his king walk towards him with a smile gracing his lips. Merlin can almost feel the warmth of a summer day as he nears, and he lets himself believe that his cluster of light had grown so large that it has engulfed him. Merlin is almost like he used to be by the time Arthur crosses the room to stand by his side. The sorcerer’s dark blue eyes twinkle with the reflection of imaginary sunrays, his cheeks lightly dusted with the pink flush that no one has ever seen on Merlin when Arthur is absent. But most of all is his smile - his pale, pink lips stretched wide across his white teeth, a real smile that reaches his eyes and makes them twinkle.

This smile is different from the ones usually given; those are lies in every form of the word. They are borne of pain and hurt to deceive and allude. This smile brightens up Merlin’s face, it draws the eyes away from the dark circles under his eyes, the sickly pale of his skin, and the flatness of his dark blue eyes; eyes that for a second seem to have regained their old mischievous sparkle. Arthur smiles at Merlin, swinging his arm around his friend as they stand side by side. If either man notices the way Merlin leans into Arthur’s touch, neither of them points it out. “Why are you all wet, Merlin? _You’re hurt,_ for God’s sake! You can’t just stand out in the rain all brooding and pensive. You’re going to get sick.”

Merlin swallows thickly as the nostalgia hits him of a Camelot under the rule of Uther. A rule when magic was banned and sorcerers were persecuted. A rule when Arthur was merely a prince and Merlin simply a servant. They were, funnily enough, the happiest years of his life. “I'm not _brooding,_ Arthur. I’m completely…” Merlin trails off as his king pokes him in the side, trying to get his attention.

His eyes fall closed and he feels the pain stab once more in his heart as he hears Arthur’s gasp. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she Merlin?”

The sorcerer’s eyes open, their blue flat and broken once more. “Yes. Yes she is, sire,” he says as he pulls away from his king. His majesty is confused, his eyes narrowing as though he is trying to see, trying to understand what happened to the Merlin he knew.

Merlin doesn’t know where he went either.

The court sorcerer bows low and deep as his eyes watch a crack in the stone floors intently. Merlin doesn’t trust himself not to cry if his eyes meet the bright blue ones of his king. He feels them watching him intently and can almost hear the wheels turning in Arthur’s head as his majesty struggles to understand. Arthur wraps his fingers around Merlin’s slender wrist and catches him as his sorcerer tries to pull away. _To run_ , far away from his king and his queen - from the pain that threatens to pull him under and make him suffer. _To hide_ from those piercing blue eyes that Merlin has managed to elude and remain beneath the notice of all these years. It seems Merlin’s luck has finally run out.

Arthur’s grip tightens. “Merlin. _Look at me._ What’s wrong? Are you hurting? _Merlin!_ ” The sorcerer pulls futilely against his majesty’s strong, iron-like hold. He wants to scream and whisper all at the same time, to pour out his soul and pain into the one word to answer Arthur’s question. _Yes._ Merlin wants to say. _Yes, I’m hurting. Yes, you make me feel like my soul is breaking. Yes, every time I watch you watch her I feel like I’ve been pushed off the edge and I’m falling into the darkness. I want to scream for help; I want you to rescue me. But you’re too busy watching her and I’m too busy watching you. I’m falling, and I’m scared of what will happen when I hit the ground. Yes, I’m hurting. Yes._

But Merlin remains silent. His eyes stay glued to the crack in the floor. The candlelight dances and flickers gold red light onto the world, leaving a part of the crack shadowed in the darkness. Merlin isn’t sure if he’s the tear, or the shadows that bring death and grey while everything else thrives and dances in the brilliant reds of color. “I need to check on Camelot’s defensive spells, my lord,” Merlin says, his voice as resolute as always. It doesn’t betray him or the rush of emotions that prick at the back of his eyes and burn his throat. He feels the spells that keep Camelot safe from malevolent sorcerers softly humming beneath the surface and he knows that they are indeed still strong. He will do anything, _anything_ to get away from Arthur and those blue eyes that see too much.

“Merlin… we’re friends. You don’t need to call me-” Merlin ducks his head down and pries Arthur’s fingers off his pale wrist.

“You are too kind, my king.”

Merlin turns and walks out of the hall and begins the trek to his quarters. He feels his king’s eyes on his back, watching him, and he is unable to control it any longer. He bolts into a run, feeling the burn of Arthur’s gaze as he flees the scene. The pounding of his heart almost drowns out the desperate pleas that he screams inside his head. He wants someone to hear him; he wants to be able to hear _himself._ But his heart is beating too hard, his blood thrumming too loud as it rushes around his body, once, twice, three times. The rain is falling too hard, the sound echoing on the cold stonewalls as it trickles down from the roof. It is too much to handle. He hears voices in the wind as it howls against the castle, he hears the promises made to lovers that would never be kept. He hears the pacts made by friends that will never be honored. He hears hearts breaking and souls tearing, the silent screams of scorned lovers deafening him as he slams the door to his quarters behind him.

Merlin pants as he leans against the door, his lungs burn and his throat is tight when he swallows, tears stinging his eyes. The sorcerer still sees those bright blue eyes watching him when he closes his; Merlin sees those slender fingers wrapped around his wrist and those lips parted in a smile as Arthur whispers someone else’s name. _Not Merlin’s name; never Merlin’s._ He opens his eyes slowly, trying to find comfort in the familiarity of the room. The warlock runs his hands over the huge leather texts that litter the room in a disorganized mess. Papers lay everywhere, some written on and others torn, but still kept. Nothing here is ever thrown away.

Merlin walks up to the glass beakers that Gaius loved so much and he gently picks one up. There’s a ring of dust on the shelf and Merlin wipes it off with his sleeve, glancing around wearily as he does so. He almost believes that any second now, Gaius would reemerge from wherever he’s hiding and scold him for letting things fall into this state. He would roll his eyes and raise his eyebrows at Merlin and call him an idiot. Then they would laugh, and everything would be all right because Gaius said it would be. It would be any second now.

Any second.

Merlin feels his magic shooting through his blood as his eyes fall closed and he succumbs to memory. A tear slides down his cheek as the candles blow out of their own accord and the room falls into shadow. One would swear that Emrys’ silent tears glint gold as he falls asleep in the same bed he has slept in since his first night in Camelot.

Merlin can’t sleep naturally anymore, can’t fall into the soft numbness of a world made completely in his mind. Something happened, something went so wrong somewhere and one day he just can’t fall asleep without using magic anymore. The last thing Merlin feels every night before he fell into his memories is the burn of magic in his veins, a familiar friend, his only friend. Merlin wants to fall asleep to a lover’s soft caress, a loving whisper, or the ghost of a kiss. To close his eyes knowing his friend and lover lay by him, knowing that he isn’t alone in the world. There Merlin lies, his arms wrapped tightly around his own fragile build; he wonders if maybe everyone was right, it seems Merlin is a scrawny thing. On the verge of sleep Merlin makes a note to himself to ask for bigger helpings of food from the cooks. Merlin fingers fist in his dark robes, and he braces himself for the memories.

They come every night, silent and slow, as he falls deeper into unconsciousness. Magic comes at a price. To save a life one must be sacrificed, to heal one’s body blood must be shed and given, to wish for sleep one must sacrifice one’s dreams and the musings and worlds that a sleeping mind discovers. Merlin hadn't known what to expect the first time he used his magic in such a way. He guesses he really should have expected it. His mind didn’t know what to do as he fell into his first golden slumber and it scrambled for something - _anything_ \- to fill his head as he slept. It latches on to the only thing he has left: his memories.

Some are a blur, hazy and unclear; others burn slowly, trickling pain into his heart. He feels soft caresses under his clothes and the sear of the chill when it is taken away. He relives everything, including the moments that stand out sharply in his mind and send a paralyzing pain through his heart. He sees flashes of red and gold with snatches of beautiful blue, and Merlin knows what’s coming next.

  


_“Merlin.” His king’s voice rings loud and true in his ear almost as if he has truly been able to turn back time and step once again into its smooth flow. The sorcerer’s heart seizes as he watches Arthur cradle his head in his hands,_ his _Arthur, who asked Merlin to stay with him when Morgana betrayed them. His Arthur, still trying to find himself and the type of king he wanted to be when Uther fell and left the young prince the throne to Camelot._

 _It is ironic that Uther, who spent his whole life fighting, bleeding, and causing bloodshed alike, he passed silently and unnoticed in the night when he died. The people of Camelot gathered quietly in the courtyard when the whispers finally made their rounds that the reign of King Arthur had finally come. No one whispered of the death of the old king for he was already forgotten._

 _In the years to come grandmothers will pull their grandchildren close and whisper of the great deeds that their king has performed, of the bravery and loyalty that Arthur shows his people. Maybe,_ maybe _on a particularly stormy night when the rain falls hard on the roof and the fire flickers wildly will she tell them of Uther Pendragon, father of King Arthur. But soon those stories will die too, washed away by the purity that came with Arthur’s reign. The stories of the lady Morgana and her days as a ward of Camelot, those of Guinevere and Arthur’s love that seemed to have been impossible when she was merely a servant girl, and tales of Arthur’s brave and loyal knights who would lay their life down for him in a heartbeat replace the stories of Uther and fill the silence. The stories of Merlin, the court sorcerer, are always favorites among the children. They giggle and hush each other as they imagine the all-powerful warlock getting pelted by rotten fruit and vegetables in the stocks. Their eyes turn wide in awe when their older siblings tell them they had personally thrown tomatoes at the most powerful sorcerer Albion would ever know._

 _These legends replace those of wars and famine. Laughter fills the streets of Camelot with the sound of children playing until no one remembers the screaming in the night as knights dragged away their neighbors to be executed. Uther, who tried so hard to be remembered, would be overlooked by legend. He would forever remain the tyrant and predecessor to King Arthur, the greatest king the world would ever know._

 _The people held candles in their hands - not for the past, but for the present. The soft glow of candlelight was for the hope of a better future, a_ happier _future, and a better son than a father._

 _Merlin can almost smell the wine that pooled on the floor when Arthur raged and cried. He can still feel the soft skin of Arthur’s wet cheeks under his fingertips as he soothed his king. He whispered into his soft hair, fingers gentle and insistent as Arthur pulled him closer, sobbing into his chest. Merlin ghosted a kiss on the crown of Arthur’s head, not daring to go any further while his king was already so broken, shattered, and confused. Merlin refused to hurt Arthur. He refused to make it any worse or harder for him. He cannot help but wonder if things would be any different now if he had.  The king of Camelot didn’t say much when his tears finally subsided, and with a breaking heart, his friend rose to leave. Rough fingers, calloused with years of being wrapped around the hilt of a sword, gently encircled a slender wrist to hold Merlin back._

 _“Stay.”_

 _Merlin obeyed._

The memory changes and turns a deep blue, swirls of sapphire and aquamarine join it. Each color dredges up a memory more painful than the one before it; worse still are the ones that were happy. When Merlin leaves those happy memories to join ones of pain and hurt, to life as he knows it in the present, he feels the sting of bitterness sharper still. The aquamarine engulfs his mind and before he knows it he’s drowning in it.

 _He was burning; his throat tightened as he tried to swim upwards, towards the light, towards life, towards Arthur. He saw his king reaching for him, eyes wide in panic and worry as he felt fingers encircle his wrist and tug him upwards._

 _They broke the surface, the cool air forced its way down his throat and he choked, heaving against the bank, his friend’s palm rubbed circles on his back. As he got his breath back, he heard Arthur remark, “You_ idiot. _What were you thinking, jumping in like that?” His voice was colored with worry and relief. He tried to scowl at Merlin but his lips twitched upward, giving him away._

The worst part of the night was his inability to change anything - he could only watch and hope that when he wakes up, the world won’t be too hard to face.

 _“Sorry,” the younger, happier Merlin said, shooting the prince a sheepish smile. Arthur rolled his eyes, ruffling Merlin’s hair before pulling his manservant into his arms. He froze; his breathing became shallow and his heart beat quickly in his chest as he tentatively wrapped his arms around his Prince._

 _Arthur held him tightly as he whispered in his ear, “I thought I lost you. Never… never do that to me again.”_

 _Merlin’s lips split in a wide smile as he pressed his face to Arthur’s shoulder, the damp cloth cool against his cheek. “Yes, sire.”_

 _Arthur pushed his friend away by the shoulders firmly so as to look him in the eyes. “Promise me, Merlin. Promise me as your friend, not your prince.” Arthur had never looked more beautiful, his blond hair was damp and curled at the nape of his neck, his eyes were so blue they rivaled the water, his long lashes sparkled as he blinked water out of his eyes. Merlin couldn’t help the sudden intake of breath as he stared at Arthur, and if either of them noticed, they chose to ignore it. His palm found Arthur’s cheek where he cradled it softly, wiping away a smudge of mud as he nodded._

 _“You’re not my prince, Arthur. You are my king. Remember that.” His friend’s lips parted in surprise, but Merlin continued on, his breathlessness fueled his sudden bravado as he gently swiped a finger across Arthur’s lower lip. “But yes, I promise. I serve only you.” His king smiled at him, shy and small, but he covered it up by pulling him into a one armed hug. Merlin reveled in the warmth and sheer mass of Arthur as he felt his heart ignite under his skin._

 _He felt cold when the prince pulled away, his eyes lowered as he pulled himself up onto the bank. Merlin felt the chill settle in his bones and he shivered, though the sun shone brightly. The court sorcerer shivered as he clutched tighter still to his pillows and blankets. Merlin struggled to pull himself onto the bank, his arms unable to handle the weight of himself and his wet clothes. He heard an exasperated sigh before Arthur walked over, a determined expression on his face. He wanted to caress and kiss away the frown and worry lines on Arthur’s face but he worried that would only add to them. The prince pulled him up, their hands warm against each other as their fingers instantly intertwined._

 _Merlin felt his cheeks color but he didn’t dare say a word, worried that his voice would crack and all would be lost. Arthur cleared his throat, but neither of them let go even as the prince snapped at his servant to_ hurry up _because he absolutely did not have all day to go saving around damsels in distress, specifically Merlin._

 _He just rolled his eyes affectionately at the prince and called him a prat. Merlin felt empty when Arthur had no choice but to untangle their hands as he mounted his horse, his manservant following him by foot as they headed back to Camelot. But he felt his heart warm and his cheeks flush when Arthur offered him a hand once again, this time to ride with him on Hengroen. His eyes were soft and cautious, his face hopeful but guarded. He was worried that his friend would decline and reject his offer, deny him, and shatter the world they had so carefully carved; a world devoid of rank and position. It was where it all began, the place where Prince Arthur would continue to escape to when the pressure of noble blood became too much to bear. It was the very world that he wanted to share with his people._

 _Arthur’s teeth pulled gently on his lower lip nervously, eyes watching Merlin’s face as his friend slipped his hand into his own calloused one. When Arthur smiled it caught him off guard. It was bright, blinding, a smile so raw and real and true. His heart fluttered in his chest as he was yanked upward, Arthur’s other hand supporting him as he mounted Hengroen. Arthur’s chest was warm against Merlin’s back, the arms around him felt so right. It felt like... home. He wondered if maybe he’s finally found it: the place he’d been constantly searching for, the place he belonged. Merlin felt something click into place inside him as he heard Arthur whisper in his ear. “My friends ride with me and…you are my truest friend, Merlin. Even though you’re an idiot.”_

 _Merlin smiled softly and he wondered if maybe that crazy dragon was right. It was moments like these that Merlin could see the brilliant king Arthur would become. He felt his chest warm and his smile widen as he felt Arthur’s chin rest on the top of his head. He would help the prat grow into the greatest king Albion - no, the world - would ever know; he could feel it in his soul, his heart. His entire being screamed it._

The blues darken again, the tidal pool of darkness swallowing the sleeping Merlin once again. He knows better.

He feels the dread settle, the fatigue and exhaustion sinking deep into his bones and into his mind. He knows what’s coming next. He always knows.

 _He didn’t notice anything at all. The young sorcerer fixed his bright blue and black robes as he entered the chambers he shared with Gaius, the disorganized home that brought comfort and warmth. Merlin wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on earth. “He’s an absolute_ prat! _I don’t see how that_ bloody dragon _thought he would be the greatest king to have ever lived! I mean he is a_ good _king, but-” Merlin stilled and the rooms were filled with silence compared to what they were seconds ago when he burst in, door banging and robes flying as he threw the scratchy material onto the floor._

 _“Gaius?” He called, his footsteps echoed in the rooms that suddenly felt emptier and larger. There was no Gaius around mixing remedies for the ill and making ointments for bruised and sore knights. He paused in front of the door to his room and listened, but beyond his own breathing all he could hear were the distant sounds of horses’ hooves on cobblestones and the clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer against hot metal floating in through the open window. Missing were the sounds of the friendly and affectionate banter between him and Gaius as they spoke of the day’s happenings, the sound of boiling water as dinner cooked and potions brewed. None of it felt right._

 _Merlin pushed his door open gently, “Gaius?” he called again. He paused, seeing his friend, mentor, confidante and_ father _bent over his magic book, shaking fingers flipping the pages. Merlin called again, softer this time as he watched Gaius look up. Gaius’ face was pale and his white hair stuck to his forehead and curled at the nape of his neck from sweat._

 _“Merlin! My boy!” His friend called, his weary and wrinkled face smoothing the way for his cracked lips to split in a smile. Merlin felt his relief grow in his chest and the worry disappear as Gaius fussed over him. “You’re too skinny, Merlin. People are beginning to think I don’t feed you!” Camelot’s all-powerful warlock ducked his head sheepishly and scratched at the back of his neck as Gaius continued to complain about the state of his room. Merlin just hadn’t had time to clean it lately. It hit the young sorcerer then that he hadn’t seen Gaius in three days. He’d just been so busy. Merlin felt the shame and guilt settle in the pit of his stomach as he watched Gaius fuss about, preparing their dinner of roasted chicken and fruit._

 _Merlin leaned against his bedroom doorway, the soft wood against his cheek as he breathed in deeply, the smell of it mixed with the cooking food and dampness from the rain gave him a dizzy rush of belonging. His lips tweaked upwards in a smile as Gaius turned to him with his infamous eyebrow raised. “_ Well _? Aren’t you going to help an old man?” Merlin had laughed before hugging Gaius and beginning to assist him in readying their messy table for dinner. Gaius had stilled in his arms, his palms tentatively patting the sorcerer on the back awkwardly. Merlin could have sworn that when he pulled away Gaius’ eyes were shining with unshed tears, but he just smiled, for they no doubt reflected his own._

How Merlin wishes he had asked his mentor, companion, confidante, friend, father, what the matter was. Maybe if he had things would be different now.

 _They had dinner together; Gaius sat across from him as they tore into their food. Gaius frequently commenting on Merlin’s eating habits. But his tone was teasing and light, his smile affectionate. “Merlin…” The sorcerer stilled, his mouth open for a bite of chicken. Gaius’ face was serious, his mouth set in a grim line. “I know I could never replace your father, but I hope I have been… adequate.” Merlin’s eyes widened, his lips tweaked upward in an affectionate smile, and when he answered his voice was teasing and light._

 _“Well, I’ve managed to make do. I didn’t turn out so bad, did I?”_

 _Both men’s eyes shone with tears but if either of them noticed, neither commented on it as Gaius patted Merlin’s hand. “Not bad at all, Merlin. Not bad at all.”_

 _Then, in a rush of sound, the doors burst open. A guard dressed in the beautiful reds and golds of Camelot’s colours entered, his face frantic and flushed from running in armor. “The king requires your presence, my lord.”_

 _Merlin rose, nodding at the guard as he blinked away his tears. He smiled down at Gaius as the old physician flashed him a proud grin. “I remember the boggling idiot who came charging into my chambers all those years ago. Who would believe it? Court sorcerer.” Merlin smiled, wide and toothy as Gaius waved him away, “Go on. Go save all of Albion, oh powerful and wise Merlin.”_

 _The warlock walked to the door, slipping his robes back on. But before he left the bubble of comfort and warmth to the cold and dangers of the world, he flashed a warm smile at Gaius once more. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Gaius,” he said._

 _Gaius nodded slowly. “Of course you couldn’t! Who would have saved you when you got yourself into trouble? You can’t even brew a proper burn ointment! Which is really important to learn, you know. See, the skin is very tender while…”_

 _Merlin made a run for it, grabbing the ridiculous hat when he exited the room, laughing. “Goodnight, Gaius! I’ll see you in the morning!”_

He didn’t.

Merlin’s lashes flutter against his pale cheeks, flush from the heat of the thin blankets wrapped around his scrawny body and his growing panic twisting in his gut. His dark hair curls at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat, as he turns restlessly in his sleep. He sees the swirl of blues darken into black, the vortex of darkness pulling him deeper inside himself and drowning him in his memories. He hears snatches of conversations in his head, some new and some old, others he’s never remembered having at all.

 _“You don’t know why I’m born like this, do you?”_

 _“No.”_

 _“I’m not a monster, am I?”_

 _“Don’t ever think that.”_

 _“Everything I do is for him, and he just thinks I’m an idiot.”_

He feels the darkness completely engulf him, eating his coherency and composure the longer he stayed submerged in the shade. Full conversations pale into sentences that eventually fade into mere snippets. They are simple paintbrush strokes amongst an entire painting.

 _“… Son to me.”_

 _“… Sacrifice...”_

 _“… Leech tank…”_

 _“…Sorcery…”_

 _“…Danger.”_

 _“Fool…”_

 _“…Stocks.”_

 _“…Grave mental affliction.”_

But most of all-

 _“Destiny.”_

The colours swirl and the voices get louder and higher. The memories change, distorting and tearing at the edges. The voices melt into a single voice that screams his name; it accuses Merlin of atrocities and it is clear whom it holds responsible. _“You tried to kill me!”_ It’s high-pitched and he can practically feel the bloody scratches of nails raking down his ears. He feels the thrum of blood and the hum of pain singing in his ears, adding to screech of the siren. Merlin wants to scream, enough! _Enough._ Worse still is the pain in his heart, the paralyzing guilt that tightens his throat and he slowly begins to choke. The air scratches down Merlin’s raw throat and the sorcerer can taste the metallic tang of his own blood. Nevertheless the pain inflicted by his guilt cuts right through Merlin and all his brain can comprehend besides the blinding pain is the pang of regret that sears through him. He could have saved her. _I could have saved you,_ Merlin cries and he knows what’s coming next; still he flinches and fights the urge to bury himself deeper into the dark depths inside his soul to hide away.

 _“Merli-”_ The voice chokes off and his mind is silent with the exception of the soft strangled gasps coming from deep inside the darkness. _The dark depths inside himself,_ Merlin realizes. Just like that Merlin wakes in his bed, damp from sweat where he lay. The warlock pants, his hands immediately reaching up to swipe at his ears. He fears he will find the sticky red of blood left on his fingers as he pulls them away. The sorcerer finds nothing, but his heart is still beating fast. His blood burns with magic inside him, ready to attack and kill anything that would be an immediate threat to its host. Merlin’s breath is shallow and his heart beats fast in his chest. He settles down again, running his slender fingers across his flushed face as he kicks the threadbare blankets off, only to shiver again once the cool night air blows across clammy skin. The sorcerer stares up at his ceiling, the cracks both old and new offering him comfort as the sounds of choking still ring in his mind.

Merlin forces his mind away, squeezing his eyes shut as he tears away from the pain and wishes for sleep and sanctuary; though he knows it will never come. He still tries to sleep sometimes in the dead of night when there is nothing left to do and his memories have awoken him. The sorcerer tries when Camelot is in a deep silent slumber and the only living beings stirring are Merlin and the mouse that lives in the hat next to his bed. Even the furry white mouse - _Sebille,_ he had named her - sometimes lay sleeping in the nest of gold and red cloth of his hat with the ridiculous green feathers and tussles. Merlin finds comfort in the sound of quiet scratching as Sebille scurries about, no doubt collecting scraps of materials in his room for her nest.

However tonight Sebille is silent and Merlin tries to force his mind to fall asleep - natural sleep. Beautiful silence. His muscles clench with his effort to keep still, the hot mattress beneath Merlin’s body causing him to shift and groan before the heat becomes unbearable and the arm he injured begins to hurt again. The sorcerer wanders over to the slightly open window and pushes it out all the way, the cool wind feeling absolutely delicious on his heated skin. Merlin stares out onto his city, onto a miniscule part of Arthur’s kingdom that was nevertheless big enough to fill his heart. As far as Merlin was concerned, Camelot is home even if he has no one to come back home to.

Merlin remembers doing the very same thing years ago and every night since then, his elbows resting on the smooth wood that was worn down from age and use. The sorcerer wonders what changed more: the city around him, silent in the dark night; or himself. What happened to the bustling idiot that managed to save Gaius that very first day? Merlin’s throat tightened. _Gaius._ The guilt rushes back from where it had simply been waiting under the surface, for the moments where his heart was vulnerable and his mind idle - then it would rise and brand pain and regret into every essence of his being. The warlock’s fingers clench tightly, the slivers of crescent moons white on his palms as he rubs his eyes. Dark shapes dance across his vision as he blinks to regain his sight. Is this what Gaius saw? The shadows lurking so close, ready to steal his last ragged breath from between his lips and to rip his soul from his body.

Gaius died alone. When Merlin returned from fixing whatever crisis Albion was in then, or after completing the ridiculous reports Arthur forced him to do, he walked into their chambers and was greeted by the sight of his sleeping mentor. The sorcerer crept silently up to him, a small affectionate smile gracing his face as he covered the elderly man with a blanket. Merlin doesn’t know what alerted him that things were amiss first - was it the feel of Gaius’ ice-cold skin or his magic book laying open on the ground beside the cot? Either way, Merlin leaned down, his eyebrows furrowed and confused, as he read the spell on the page. _Eac gefrýnd cumaþ hámfæreld._ Merlin did not dare to read it aloud, his teeth gently biting his lower lip as he struggled to understand. What could Gaius have possibly wanted with a spell like this? Things slowly began to click together in Merlin’s mind.

The small smile spread across Gaius’ face, the spell, the messy table covered in books and papers that looked like someone had attempted to organize before just giving up. Strangely, they all fit together. Merlin swallowed, the tightness in his throat rising as he leaned down to press his ear to Gaius’ chest. He was vaguely aware of the thud of the book falling from his loose grasp onto the floor from beneath the silence; Merlin could hear nothing. The sorcerer gripped his mentor’s shoulders, getting ready to shake him and to try to rouse him once more into the light. Merlin could feel his magic coiling in the pit of his stomach, ready and excited for this new challenge.

“Don’t worry, Gaius. I’ll save-” The warlock stilled, his hands loosening their hold on the older man’s robes as Merlin finally saw. Gaius’ relaxed smile and his brow smoothed without worry; it was the look of complete and utter peace. Merlin swallowed thickly and pulled his hands away to gently wipe at Gaius’ brow. He had to be the strong one that time; he could not be selfish after Gaius had already given so much for him. Merlin had to allow him that. Merlin owed Gaius that; he would not bring him back for his own selfish needs. Gaius had known this was coming, it explained everything. The silent goodbye hidden in everything the old man had done; from the way Gaius had looked as he leafed through Merlin’s book, words exchanged before he had left. The sorcerer stood in a dazed flurry as he searched the room, his hands numb and useless as he knocked books off the tables in his hurry. It had to be there somewhere, Merlin thought as he saw drops of wet land on the parchment beneath him.

He unthinkingly swiped at his cheeks, his palms came away wet with salty tears. Merlin’s blue eyes blinked slowly, his dark lashes fluttered as he watched his tears fall slowly onto the pages. There was nothing. Gaius left no letter, no note, and no bloody explanation for all of it. Merlin fell to the floor, his knees buckling as he gripped onto the edge of the cot. It dawned on him, the reason why nothing was left, why nothing was even whispered; everything was already known. There was naught more to be said. Merlin sobbed into Gaius’ side, the cold merely burned into him the painful reality. But Merlin didn’t understand, he never would - not really - why Gaius hadn’t just asked to be healed after he had fallen off the balcony. His mentor’s head had been wrapped for a day or two from where he had hit his head on the blunt, worn-down edge of a table. When Merlin had seen him that night, the elder man had simply waved him off and slapped his useless hands away. Gaius had claimed he was alright, had even told Merlin that he was to save his strength and magic for something else; for someone else of more importance and greater need.

If only Merlin had been there as he had once been to catch Gaius as he fell. If he had gotten there sooner, or had left later, Gaius might still be alive now and he would be cooking their dinner as Merlin waited at the table, chattering away about the day’s happenings. Gaius would nod and smile as well as interrupt from time to time about how he’s never met a stupider smart person. Merlin would just laugh and take it as the compliment it was semi-meant to be. (Though one could also call it an affectionate insult, Merlin truly didn’t mind either). But there they laid, Merlin’s breath heavy with sobs and Gaius lacking of them altogether. Merlin’s eyes landed on the book, hidden halfway beneath the cot as if unwilling to be seen and found. _Eac gefrýnd cumaþ hámfæreld._

Old friends return home.

Merlin read the curling spidery script and held his breath. Had Gaius been that lonely? Had he felt unable to talk to Merlin, worried that he might be in the way, or even worse, a nuisance? The sorcerer squeezed his eyes closed at the thought, unable to bear it. If Gaius had at least told him Merlin could have been there while he passed instead of those ghosts, those shades of dead friends and fleeting acquaintances. He felt the burn of jealousy sear through him at the thought. They would have him all to themselves when he passed anyway, couldn’t they have given him one moment for a simple farewell? What right did they hold over him to be the ones by Gaius’ side as he drew his last shaky breath?

Merlin knew he was being irrational, stupid and selfish, much like the blustering idiot who first entered the chambers many years ago. The sorcerer raised his eyes to Gaius’ face slowly and felt the anger and resentment slowly dissipate. Merlin was soon left with only sadness, overwhelming sadness at the thought that Gaius had only a spell for company when he passed into shadow. He had hoped Gaius would die in a roomful of friends and people who loved him. Merlin blinked the tears away from his eyes as he rested a palm on Gaius’ cheek. “Sleep well… father.” He could almost hear Gaius’ reply and see his small smile. _Goodnight, son._

But Merlin knows now that Gaius hadn’t died alone. His mentor, friend, and father had died in a roomful of smiling friends that only he could see. Gaius had passed from this world into the arms of all his friends who waited on the other side who had been able to, with the spell, cross over and smile down at him as he heaved his last breath. Merlin feels grateful as he turns away from the window and lays back down on his bed, careful not to bend his sore arm; they had been there for Gaius when he hadn’t been. He sighs, swiping a hand over tired eyes. He is happy Gaius died among friends, especially ones he had not seen in awhile. Gaius deserved it after all he’d done. Gaius deserved the best the world had to offer; he’d saved people and risked his life for the sake of others. The sorcerer snuggles down into the bed, his blue eyes watching the shadows play on the wall; secret stories that only Merlin could hear and see. He reminisces of the adventures that they had, the laughs and tears they shared. A small smile ghosts the sorcerer’s face as the sun rises over the horizon and chases the shadows away, the stories left untold and unfinished - Merlin would have to wait for another night to continue the never ending story.

  


Merlin lays there, the muscles in his left arm sore and burning whenever he moves. He never has gotten the hang of healing spells. Merlin watches the tiny rays of blue gray light flicker in the window and the sounds of Camelot beginning to wake. The cocks crow and he can hear the first clangs of the blacksmith’s hammer as he begins to forge his new masterpiece of metal. The sorcerer’s fingers tug on a loose thread hanging from his blanket as he closes his eyes for a brief moment. He imagines the spark of red flames from the forge behind his eyelids and the hammer brought down on the sword in time with the clanging. It isn’t much of a sword now, but with time and patience it could be beautiful and the day would come that its fate would be decided. It could be a weapon of terror and bloodshed, screams would echo when it was drawn; or it could be a protector, the sword of a knight maybe, then it would be a tool of justice and peace. Either way, Merlin thinks as he stretches his sore arm out carefully and feels the pull of tight muscles, the sword won’t have a choice. It is just a simple tool in the entire scheme of things, after all.

The sorcerer has to open his eyes, the darkness behind his lids beginning to suffocate him. Ever since he can remember, even as a little boy in Ealdor falling asleep to the sounds of crickets and the rain falling, he had never liked closing his eyes to wait for sleep. He felt the darkness suffocating and painful, like someone was sitting on his chest and simultaneously covering his mouth and nose. Merlin had fallen asleep when he was younger, still daydreaming as his eye traced patterns and watched shadows. There was always so much to see at night.

Merlin rubs at his eyes, dry from the tears and lack of sleep, but still he snuggles closer to his blankets. He feels the ache of his muscles and it’s almost pleasant amongst the warm sheets. The sorcerer knows that soon he will have to rouse himself up and out of bed to face the day. He knows he will have to don the black robes and accidentally forget to wear his hat. Merlin will give Arthur his reports and stand by his side as court is held. It’s all rather boring in Merlin’s point of view, but the days when he can finally sneak out of the court room then - and sometimes it’s only then - Merlin feels like being court sorcerer is worth it. He disguises himself, sometimes, as an old man in bright blue robes with a long white beard. He even wears the hat if he’s feeling generous. He has the walking stick and everything. He’s almost perfected the old man hobble without the use of magic and he is quite proud of himself. It’s not as easy to remain hunched over as one might think. Merlin goes out into the city, or sometimes he even goes to the outlying villages, helping them with their problems as much as he can. The sorcerer heals the oxen, mends the fences, rebuilds houses; Merlin does anything and everything to help the people of Albion. They are his people too - even if they don’t know it.

Merlin relishes in the feeling of making sparks fly out of his fingertips for the children’s amusement. It’s nice doing magic for a pure fun and joy, instead of a tool that played a role in the outcome of life or death. It makes Merlin happy. The sorcerer tells stories with the aid of figures carved out of the very air, the bright red flames leaping from his bare fingers and forming magical creatures in the sky. He makes dragons, phoenixes, and unicorns. Merlin makes anything and everything that strikes his fancy and that of the children. The children make it worth it. Their purity and wide, innocent smiles make Merlin’s heart fill and, in those moments, he finally knows what his purpose in life is again. The thrill of being able to brighten someone’s day, to watch the small frown from stress and worry slide off their face with a flick of a wrist or a snap of his fingers. Merlin loves to make people smile, especially children, and watch them shriek with glee as they clap their little hands together.

Merlin likes knowing there is a reason for it all, the bloodshed, the betrayals and the lies. He likes to think something good and joyous comes from it. The sorcerer watches the last of the shadows slink away and almost like clockwork there’s a knock on the door. Merlin’s been expecting it, it’s been happening every morning for the past two weeks after all. Still he groans and sighs and fusses unnecessarily with the sheets and takes his time to wash his face and pull on his black trousers before he opens the door. Gwaine is standing there, his hand anxious and restless over the hilt of his sword. The knight’s eyes are narrowed and worried but his stance immediately loosens after his sharp eyes dart over Merlin’s quarters and takes in the sorcerer’s appearance: tired and sleepy but otherwise unharmed. The relief in Gwaine’s eyes fades quickly before he leans forward to wrap Merlin in a one-armed hug. Gwaine smiles and pats the warlock on the back. “How are you doing, my friend? Is your wound healing well?”

The knight takes a seat at the wooden table, ignoring the magic brooms cleaning the floor and the laundry washing itself in the corner; the sound of water splashing onto the floor fills the silence. The knight’s attention is otherwise occupied by the two apples in his hands, one of which he tosses at Merlin’s head. The sorcerer pulls on the rest of his black uniform, his teeth biting into the soft, rosy flesh of the apple. The sweet juices of it explode in his mouth and he takes a second to revel in it before he turns to Gwaine.

“I really appreciate your help, Gwaine, but you honestly don’t need to keep doing this. You saved my life. That’s generally where most people call it quits, you don’t have to keep checking up on me you know. You certainly don’t have to do… this. Your quota of good deeds has been filled.”

Merlin bites his lip nervously, his fingers playing with the loose threads of his shirt. He hadn’t expected Gwaine to come back into his life like this, full force and with every intention to cram his way back into Merlin’s heart. The sorcerer hadn’t the time to build the walls back up, to formulate a lie. Merlin hadn’t ever needed to before, not in Gaius’ chambers, not in _his_ chambers. It’s been Merlin’s sanctuary and asylum all this time, the only place where he can let the cries of frustration out. These walls watch him toss and turn in an induced and disturbed sleep, after all. These walls see him for who he is, they saw him at his weakest and worst. Here Merlin isn’t the all-powerful sorcerer of Camelot; here he is simply a man. A restless man with dark rings under his eyes, stark in contrast with his sickly pale skin. Here, Merlin is simply a lonely man with no refuge in sleep to be found.

Gwaine simply ignores him, swinging his leather-clad feet up onto the wooden workbench. The knight’s eyes are narrowed, his brow furrowed as if he was working out a hard problem. Merlin could practically hear the gears grinding in his head. “You don’t look well, Merlin.” The sorcerer shrugs, his pale lips opening to respond but Gwaine continues. “And you are my _friend_. I shouldn’t need a reason to care for you. I especially shouldn’t need any when you look so-”

Merlin tilts his head forward, his eyebrows raised and his mouth set in a challenging, stubborn line. Gwaine falters but he continues to press on, his dark eyes just as stubborn and determined. The knight stands and he grips Merlin’s arm as the sorcerer tries to leave the room in a flurry of dark robes and pale skin. “Merlin. Merlin. Look at me. I’ve known you for years. You look… you look sick. _Diseased._ It’s like something’s sucking you dry from the inside. You’re so pale and fragile. I’ve heard of ailments where these… parasites take a home in a man’s body. It may take years, but the host withers and eventually dies. Is it- _is that it?”_ Gwaine pauses, his breath hitching in his throat.

Merlin can feel the knight’s warm breath on his cold lips. It feels… good. Gwaine’s dark eyes burn into Merlin’s, and he is just so sick of the empty hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Merlin is being sucked dry from the inside. He is withering away, but it is no parasite that eats away at him. Gwaine leans forward slowly, as one would slide gently into cold water - cautious and weary. When their lips meet, it’s chaste and warm but so very empty. It is a kiss, but it is one shared between friends. It is a kiss one might lay on a dead loved one’s pale, cold lips. Merlin doesn’t think that is much of a reach at this point, with the pain of his injury shooting up his arm. Gwaine pulls back, pained, his eyes red and straining to hold the tears. “I’m trying, Merlin. I’m trying so hard to save you but I can’t do anything. Why won’t you let me help you?” Gwaine breathes heavily into Merlin’s shoulder as he pulls the skinnier man to himself. Merlin pats the knight’s back with his palm, rubbing circles into the bright red material. “Why won’t you heal yourself?”

Merlin just stands there and when he replies, his voice is quiet. “I can’t.”

Gwaine pulls away, his eyes red and wet but staring defiantly back at Merlin. The knight makes no move to wipe the tears from his eyes, glaring at him as if daring Merlin to mock his tears. The sorcerer says nothing, his fingers grasping at shadows as Gwaine pulls back. “Can’t, Merlin? Or won’t?” He tugs free and leaves the sorcerer’s chambers in a blur of red and brown. Merlin stares blankly around his now empty chambers. They feel bigger now, more so now than before. Gwaine had seemed to fill up the place, dwarfing the space and making it homier somehow. The quarters fit two perfectly but were far too large for one; it made the emptiness even heavier on Merlin’s shoulders.

The court sorcerer walks back into his room, the echo of feet on stone sounding like something from a long time ago, from a place far away where Merlin can’t reach. It is a place Merlin can barely see but feels deep inside the recesses of his soul, a simple belief that it is there.

The sorcerer leans down and cups the small white mouse in his pale, slender fingers. He closes his eyes against Sebille’s fur, his lashes dark against her pure white. Merlin presses his lips to her, and he can feel the thrum of her heartbeat. She squeaks, the noise shrill in the air. The sorcerer shushes her. “You’re so fussy. You know you like being cuddled. Don’t deny it, I’m onto you.” The white mouse just stares up at Merlin with what might be considered a fairly condescending expression - for a mouse that is. Merlin rolls his bright blue eyes, putting Sebille down gently on the floor. “Oh, alright. I’ll see you later, you utter queen.”

The sorcerer reluctantly drags his feet out the door, shutting it firmly behind him when he leaves. He feels the soft, worn recesses and cracks in the wood. He presses a palm to the door and shuts his eyes for a second; he can almost feel the heart beat of the place before it dulls and fades back into the fast thrum of the castle. Merlin makes his way through the castle, his mind elsewhere, anywhere else. His feet know where they are going, the stone as comforting and familiar as an old friend with a mug of ale. Merlin nods to the guards that stood outside the throne room and they let him pass without much more than a small smile and a respectful nod. He remembers the time when he wouldn’t have been able to enter of his own accord; the time when all he had was what Arthur gave.

The huge double doors push open and Merlin strides in, seeing King Arthur on a magnificent gold throne, his crown forged by the elves inlaid with sapphires and rubies. He sees the queen, with her lavish gowns and intricate crown made of soft yellow gold twisted with rubies and emeralds. They look beautiful and powerful. One does not have to look hard to understand why their enemies cower where they stand under Camelot’s gaze. Merlin bows and only walks forward when Arthur nods. The sorcerer can’t help but think that not much has really changed since his time as Arthur’s manservant. “My king.” Merlin meets Arthur’s gaze straight on and he sees the king raise a questioning eyebrow. “My queen.” Gwen smiles softly and blushes but Merlin can do little more than tweak his lips upward.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “And when have propriety and titles meant so much to you, _Mer_ lin? Come on, give me your clumsy, stumbling report.” The court advisors in the room school their expressions to those of simple amusement instead of the wide smiles that threaten to break upon their faces. Those new at court always gape at the way the king and his subjects converse. Whereas Uther simply had ‘yes’ men, Arthur’s advisors had a lot more bite. Merlin raises his eyebrows and he feels the burn of embarrassment threaten to sear across his cheeks, but he stops it before he can make a bigger fool of himself. Arthur shrugs and raises his hand as if to say, _’Well, come on then.’_

Merlin takes in a deep breath to slow his rapid heartbeat, his tongue feels swollen and his throat dirt dry. It had never felt right to lie to Arthur. Kilgharrah could go on as much as he liked about how ‘the half cannot truly hate what makes it whole’ and all, but the lying was the worst. It had always been that way, lying to Arthur felt like he was deceiving himself.

“I was on the edge of the druid’s campsite when I was captured.” Immediately, a couple of Arthur’s advisors have points to make. Merlin holds back the urge to roll his eyes at them, of course they do. They are good men though, this he knows. They are honest, loyal and most importantly, they are fierce. They speak up when it is necessary and even more so when it isn’t. They keep Arthur fair and just; no one wants a king like that of Arthur’s predecessor. Uther was a man driven by hate and revenge, bitterness dark and piercing in every recess of his soul. No one wants Arthur to follow in Uther’s footsteps. They want him to grow and bloom to become the brilliant king they know he will be. So what if he has a little help?

One of the advisors stands, his eyebrows raised not completely unlike the way Gaius used to. He drums his fingers on the dark wood of the table, his eyes sharp and calculating as he watches Merlin. His dark green eyes are old; they’ve seen the rise and fall of many kings and their kingdom’s alike. Behind the wisdom and weariness there is a grim sort of determination. He has the resolve of a man who’s seen the end of great kings and the deprivation of their minds and power. He has seen the loss of justice and the beginnings of tyranny. The advisor will not let this kingdom die, he will not see his king fail; Arthur has given him the most hope he’s had in ages. “Captured? Are you not the single most powerful sorcerer in all of Albion?”

“I am,” Merlin bites out, his eyes narrowing. “They had a magical… rock. It made me weak and they captured me by force.” Eyes are trained on him, harsh and judging. A couple gazes are contemplative, and many wonder if there is not a more competent sorcerer who would be of better service to the king somewhere in Albion. Arthur merely raises an eyebrow, his pink lips pursed thoughtfully. Merlin clenches his fist tightly, feeling his nails dig into his palm and no doubt leaving half-circles of white imprinted in his soft skin.

“You claim to be the most powerful, yet you have been defeated by a… rock?” Merlin is cornered and he winces at the words that have been sharpened and made to impale. There are murmurs. _A rock? What rock? …It is surely the work of a malignant sorcerer. Is it dangerous? Will it kill our people? Will it harm our children? Will it murder-_

Arthur raises a hand, a simple gesture as the people of his court quiet, their faces worried but trusting. Their king will save them. Their king will not fail. They won’t let him. Merlin won’t let him. “I failed, and for that I apologize.” The sorcerer bows his head slightly, quickly dropping his gaze to the floor before allowing himself one glance upward. Merlin can see Gwen’s face, confused and worried as she watches him. Her eyebrows are furrowed and she looks tempted to speak up, to ask Merlin a question or demand the truth. Merlin’s hands are fisted in his dark robes by his sides. His lips quiver slightly, the motion miniscule. Merlin bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, the stinging pain clears his mind and washes away the haze of fear. “Sir Gwaine assisted me in my quest.” Merlin pauses and he sees Gwaine’s eyes widen with surprise - still slightly red and bloodshot from earlier, the sorcerer notes. The knight and the sorcerer’s eyes meet and questions, statements - _accusations_ \- are shot through the air to the other.

Merlin’s dark blue eyes are soft at first.

 _Thank you. You saved me._

Gwaine still saves him, to this very day - _that very morning._ Merlin knows Gwaine rescues him everyday without fail, like a child from the very jaws of life. But try as he might to turn Gwaine and his generous heart away, the stubborn knight just refuses to budge. Can anyone blame that child from wanting to break away? Dark brown eyes gaze back at him, fierce and loyal.

 _You didn’t need to be saved._

 _You didn’t want to be._

Merlin falters, his eyes flashing back to that of his king’s; too blue, too… Merlin’s mind scrambles for another color, another set of eyes. Any pair would suffice - _anyone_ \- just not those, anybody but him. The sorcerer’s eyes catch those of the advisor’s. The dark mud-brown of his eyes is contemplative, sharp. The old man simply raises an eyebrow, and for a second Merlin thinks he can see right through him. Merlin swallows; he can do this. He’s done this before. It really shouldn’t be this hard. Lying to the king should come naturally by now, he’s done it a million times after all. He really needs to stop being a complete and utter _girl_ about this. Yet, in his heart of hearts, he knows it’s completely different. Lying to the king and lying directly to Arthur are worlds apart. There is no way he can do the latter, Arthur simply knows him too well. Merlin winces as the advisor begins to tap his foot, impatient. The sorcerer needs to decide now.

There is a sigh. “ _Mer_ lin!” Dark blue eyes seek beautiful baby blues and the decision is made. He has to do this. He will do this, for Camelot, for the people in it, but most of all for its king. He will lie and he will lie for Arthur, _to_ Arthur, because it’s always been so. Merlin will put the good of the people above his own wants and needs. He will not give up, not this time, even if Arthur does not believe the lie. Instead he will deceive and twist his words some more until his honesty and Arthur’s trust in him is torn to shreds. None of that matters, not Arthur’s feelings and certainly not himself. He will do what he has to, to ensure that Arthur is happy. Safe. For his part, Merlin will try not to hurt if Arthur does believe him. It will shatter the fragile distance between them, the illusion that all is as it used to be. They will be forced to finally come to terms that the king doesn’t know his sorcerer as well as they both thought he did. Merlin guesses that no one truly does.

In the throne room with a court full of people, Merlin has never felt more alone. Times like these are what make him want Sebille in his pocket. These are the times where Merlin wishes for a friend like the friend he once had in a certain prince a long time ago. But time goes on and people grow up. Friends become enemies, kings die and then princes become kings. Things change. Everything changes.

“Morgana and Morgause lead them, my lords. This stone they control took away my powers and made me physically weak. If not for Sir Gwaine… I fear I would be dead.” Merlin swallows and his eyes catch Arthur’s grimace. The expression is fleeting and insignificant to the untrained eye, but Merlin’s been watching Arthur for so long; years as his manservant and even longer as his friend. The sorcerer feels a swell of pride as he watches his king school his expression back to a mask of indifference and annoyance. Merlin knows him. One could say the sorcerer knew his king better than he knew himself. Some would say they were two halves of the same whole, simply incomplete without the other. That’s what they used to say, anyway. Wasn’t it? Merlin hardly ever hears those stories anymore.

He would sit by the fire glowing softly in the middle of the crowded cluster of houses in the lower villages. Grandparents would pull their precious grandchildren close to whisper stories in their ears. He would linger on the sidelines, the children never noticing his presence while the grandparents simply nodded and smiled at him. They told stories of Queen Guinevere, of her beauty and grace. There was no more time left in the night for stories of the young Merlin and Arthur, none of all their old adventures as boys and those stories of unicorns, sorcerers and - some say - even dragons. (The old men and women always managed to sneak in stories of his days as a servant and his seemingly endless time in the stocks, though).

Dragons may live forever, but not little boys. Their friendship was merely made of painted wings and pretty things, thrown away for elegant and bewitching rings. Merlin would turn his face away from the bright red glow of the fire, the shadows darker and deeper in its midst. Those shadows hid the sorcerer’s tears well, many things did.

Arthur raises a hand and stops his advisors from speaking. “Then Sir Gwaine must be rewarded. There will be a feast in his honor tonight. Great acts of courage and loyalty must be commended.” The king smiles warmly at the knight, but it does not reach his eyes. It is no secret among those in the court that Sir Gwaine disobeyed orders to save Camelot’s sorcerer. There were whispers then, rumors of the king’s knight and sorcerer. People spoke of seeing them behind the castle with their heads close and their bodies even closer. Romantics and poets wrote ballads and sang them where they knew the king wouldn’t hear. The king wanted his knights focused, his sorcerer and advisor clear-headed. Who could blame him?

Gwaine opens his mouth to speak as he steps forward and Merlin can see the determination in his eyes. The stubbornness and honor in Gwaine would bring Merlin and his crafted lies to burn at the pyre. The sorcerer shoots Gwaine a look, sharp and angry, a look that tells the knight not to utter a single word. His heated gaze warns his friend and anybody who dares to challenge him now that he will protect his king no matter the consequences. He will protect his king because that is all he has left to do. Arthur is all Merlin has left and he isn’t even his. Merlin’s dark blue eyes flash, and some swear they turn gold. They are bewitching - a drop of lightning in a room full of dark sky. _Say nothing_ they command, and Gwaine is helpless to do otherwise. The knight bows, his eyes piercing as he glares at Merlin. The warm browns are filled with annoyance and anger, but most of all, with hurt. The sorcerer feels guilt pierce his gut. He doesn’t want this. He never wanted to lie to Arthur and to use his magic to _restrain_ someone; not just anyone either, _Gwaine._ The hollowness fills him, a gut-busting feeling of an all-consuming emptiness inside him. The sorcerer cannot help but think and wonder.

 _Who am I?_

But most of all…

 _What have I become?_

The advisors give Gwaine a round of applause, the sound of clapping thunderous and deafening in the echoes of the throne room. Merlin sighs, the pressure of performing adequately is lifted from his shoulders. He isn’t a good liar as it is, so he certainly doesn’t need an extra twenty people watching him and deliberating on exactly what sort of mental deficiency he has. Merlin had enough of that to last a lifetime as a servant in his younger days. It is time he makes his escape.

Merlin wants to crawl back into his bed and wait for a sanctuary that will never come. He wants to lose himself in the lush green of the forest with its towering trees that were protectors of the stunning silence. Merlin yearns to lay his palm on the rough solid bark of the trees and feel their magic stream from the ground into every single leaf. He wants to feel the rush of knowing life is all around him, patient and growing - always growing - yet being unable to see any of it. It is the power in silence when death is prevalent with the deafening clash of swords on armor. Life stands silent and resolute in the carnage like it always has, the boldest form of dissent it can manage. Complete silence. It says it does not agree. It does not condone. Yet blood is still shed. Even under a good king, men still find reasons to murder. They always do.

“If you’ll excuse me, your majesty, my queen. I have to… attend to the city’s defensive wards.” Merlin hopes no one will say anything, that maybe - hopefully - they will overlook him. He may be Camelot’s sorcerer, but in these nobles’ eyes he is nothing more than the servant boy he used to be. In their eyes he is insignificant and disposable, a little wooden figurine, a dragon, in a chest full of dangerous weapons. One of those sharp metal things meant to be wielded and made for the drawing of blood, crafted only for this single purpose and nothing more. The sorcerer bows low and turns quickly to leave, his heart beating fast in his chest. He is so close, five more steps and he’d be to the door. _Four._ Just a little further…

“ _Mer_ lin! I didn’t dismiss you.” Merlin freezes and turns as he looks up into Arthur’s face. The king is annoyed, that much is obvious, but he is perplexed as well. Arthur’s fingers drum silent beats onto the armrest beside him, quick and precise as he nods at Gwaine, a dismissal. The knight bows but he doesn’t leave. Instead Gwaine comes to stand by the sorcerer’s side, his hand clasped on Merlin’s shoulder. It’s warm and reassuring. Merlin cannot help the small smile that grows on his face as he rests his gaze on the man beside him. Gwaine simply nods and his eyes are beautiful just then, lit up with such loyalty and friendship that Merlin is sure he is left blinded. Those brown eyes speak; they say that though they do not agree, though they do not approve, they will stand behind him. They tell him that they trust him and they will support Merlin for no other reason besides that he is their friend, and that’s what friends do.

The knight and his king’s gazes meet. All the people of the court seem to hold their breath, entranced as the entire world hangs by a single thread that both men have the ability to snap. A single misspoken word could leave the other in ruin. Merlin watches both men before he stands between them both. He is that single fraying thread that both men are trying so hard to save. He might snap. Merlin nudges Gwaine but the knight still does not look away. His stance is tight and defensive. It is that of a warrior who is willing to disobey his king for his friend, that of a warrior who had. The king snaps his gaze away, his baby blue eyes coming to rest on Merlin’s.

When Arthur speaks his voice is cold, his eyes even colder. “Are you saying the magic of this… _rock_ overpowered yours?” Merlin simply nods, his fingers knotting in the black fabric of his robes as his blood seems to freeze in his veins. Arthur’s face twists into one of irritation, his eyes narrow and his brow crumples. “ _Answer me_ , sorcerer.” Arthur sounds so much like Uther. Merlin feels the urge to flee kick in, to turn and bolt, to feel the pounding of his heart beat in time with his feet on the stone floor.

When he and Will were only boys and those older kids decided it would be funny to pelt them with rocks? He could have run then too, he could have left Will behind in the dust. But it isn’t in him to run away, to take the easy way out. He always did manage to choose the hardest, narrowest paths. Merlin would stand his ground no matter how much he’d like to hide himself away, curling himself into the fetal position and burrowing deep inside himself – dead, gone to the world. The sorcerer has to pause for a second, his arms wrap around his pale skinny body, breathing hard through his nose as he tries to slow his heart and thoughts. _It’s okay_ , he tells himself, _it’s Arthur. He wouldn’t hurt me._ Merlin’s heart still beat hard in his chest though, his breaths coming in fast hitches, his lips parting for air. Merlin doesn’t know if he believes it anymore. The thought makes him sad and hollow inside - the loss of something he once had. Yet Merlin also feels a rush of something he cannot place. He reels when he realizes: it’s freedom.

Freedom hums softly in his veins, like a mother to a wailing child; it tells him to wait, that freedom sits just around the next corner. It won’t be too far off now, the time when King Arthur will no longer need him, the moment when Arthur cannot order him to stay. When Merlin will finally have to die. It burns him when he realizes he’s looking forward to it.

He can almost smell the smoke of the burning pyre and the absence of sound as the villagers mill around it. Their voices would simply be whispers while others yell and jeer, but Merlin won’t be able to hear a thing. Silence would be thicker than the smoke blanketing the air, and Merlin would feel the gazes settling on him again. He would feel the sweat sticking to his brow from the flames and wonder if it might happen again, or if Arthur won’t save him. If that time King Arthur would be the one to condemn him to burn.

Merlin thinks that if he could dream, he would dream of burning.

“That is my belief, sire.” The voices in the courtroom rise, harsh and loud. Merlin swallows, his tongue thick and his throat scratchy. He can feel his magic inside his body, slow and pulsing, curling around his soul - it’s home. The pain throbs beneath his skin - magic, his own magic beginning call out against him. It didn’t want to lie to Arthur, no, to anybody but Arthur! Merlin clenches his fists tightly, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to fight through this wall of magic building inside him, halting his tongue. When he speaks, it is painful. Every word claws past his throat, barely scraping past the wall. His magic is just another part of himself that belongs to Arthur, but he won’t let this be one of them. He will keep this lie closely bound to his soul and his heart. Merlin will save his king, even if it means he has to fight Arthur every step of the way.

“I request permission to go on another quest, my lord, so that I can finish what I started and accomplish what you have ordered me to do.” The sorcerer’s speech is slow but sure. Merlin is determined. He will do this right, he _has_ to do this right after all the wrong he’s done. The pain makes Merlin grit his teeth as the king stares at him incredulously.

Arthur laughs, a sharp bark filled with contempt. “ _No_ , you’d only find some way to put yourself and the whole of Albion in peril, _Mer_ lin.” The king turns to Sir Gwaine, “Gather a dozen knights and rally volunteers from the sorcerers-”

Merlin’s eyes widen. How dare he? Before he can stop himself, the sorcerer calls out, his voice clipped and angry, “ _No!_ I can do it, Arthur.”

The court watches the battle of wills as Arthur and his sorcerer stare each other down. Arthur’s light blue eyes, full of passion and fierce burning flames of protectiveness for his friends, fight the cold dark blues of Merlin’s eyes. The sorcerer’s eyes stab ice into Arthur’s very core, weapons of steel and strength. He tastes his blood filling his mouth, scalding his tongue as he bites through his lip from the pain sizzling in his veins. He does not have time for this. Arthur glares at him, eyes narrowed as he walks toward Merlin, gold crown glinting in the afternoon light filtering in the windows. “Merlin. A word in my chambers.” The sorcerer bows stiffly before leaving the throne room, not waiting for Arthur to follow. They leave whispers behind in their wake.

There is no friendly banter or casual affection thrown around in the form of insults as they walk to the chambers they know all too well. Arthur enters first, of course, his pride visibly bristling as he shoves open the wooden door, the frame trembling. His sorcerer enters after, shutting the door behind him carefully. He feels the pain slowly ebb away as he places his palm where Arthur’s had been only seconds before. The sorcerer turns to stare at his king. “I’ll leave anyway, you know.”

Arthur looks up from where he is placing his sword. “You would disobey my orders?” Merlin nods, swallowing thickly but standing his ground. He can do this. He _will_ do this - for himself, for Camelot and most of all for Arthur. Always for Arthur. Arthur crosses the room in three strides, his face inches away from Merlin’s. “You would disobey the king? You would _shame_ me?” Merlin pauses, considering, before he nods once again. Arthur has said the wrong thing. If the king had asked for a favor, if he had asked Merlin to stay for himself purely for selfish reasons, Merlin might have considered. Yet he knows he can’t stay, what is at stake is far too great. Merlin stares down defiantly at Arthur, anger flashing in his eyes, wild and dark.

“You always did have too big of an ego,” Merlin snarls. What might have passed for a teasing comment before was now clearly meant to insult and hurt. The sorcerer knows he is walking a fine line. A single word, the smallest sidestep, will send him plummeting down to the dark depths below. Arthur jolts back in surprise, his eyes widening before they return to narrow blue strips.

The king clenches his teeth before snapping, “And you were always an _idiot_ , Merlin. You still are! You _useless, lazy, incompetent fool_!” The sorcerer glares at his king, his hands balling into fists. Merlin is blinded. His vision hindered by the rage that unfolds behind his eyes, ready to bloom and grow when provoked. He wants to show Arthur just how useless he is. He wants to unleash a trickle of his magic onto the king to show him just who is at the other’s mercy. But the magic simply swirls towards Arthur, golden tendrils in the air, sparkling and shiny - harmless as they race forward to embrace their king. Arthur’s baby blue eyes reflect gold as they widen, his hands reaching up to grasp at the golden vines that weave through his fingers compliant and obediently. _Like a lap dog,_ a voice inside his skull sings, full of victory and pride. A voice not unlike that which screams inside his head and tears at his brain every night. Not unlike that at all.

The golden tendrils caress Arthur’s face and fingers; both men can hear the twinkle of a million tiny bells when the king swipes a finger down one of the vines. His magic is…it’s _laughing_. It makes swirls in the air, beautiful and magical, delirious off of the touch of a loved one. The one. Arthur. A small smile touches Arthur’s face, an old smile, one that Merlin can remember from years before. It is the smile of a prince and a friend. It slips away just as quickly and unexpectedly as it had come. Merlin is snapped out of his reverie; the quirk of Arthur’s lips replaced by a harsh mocking smile, merely a shadow of all its previous glory.

“Ooh. What are you going to _do_? Hug me to death?” Arthur stares at him, challenging him to answer back with a whip of tongue like he always does. The king baits him once more and the sorcerer wonders if he’ll ever be able to unhook himself at all. Merlin hates the angry pinch between Arthur’s eyes and the sharpness in his voice. He hates it all, everything they’ve both become. The sorcerer wants to walk away and prove Arthur wrong. He wants to leave of his own accord, with his own will instead of being ordered away by his king. Merlin does not want to rise to the challenge once again. The sorcerer clenches his teeth; even his damn magic won’t listen to him. It burst out of him like a fucking puppy when he wanted to twist and manipulate, when he wanted to prove Arthur wrong. He wants nothing more than to hurt someone other than himself, to burn and scald anything but his own skin and to send insomnia coursing through another’s veins. But he can’t do it. It’s a curse he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Merlin yanks his magic to him and he feels it snap back into his veins, the power seeping back into his skin with one last caress of Arthur’s cheek. His king stares at him, breathless when he speaks. “What was that supposed to prove? That you’re a complete and utter girl, Merlin? The rest of Albion and I already know that, you and your pretty shiny lights. When will you grow up and do real magic?” Merlin stares down at the dark wooden floors, the anger building and building inside him like a giant wave seconds from crashing.

When he speaks the sorcerer is calm, his voice is hoarse and weary. Old and so very, very tired. “Why do you never listen, Arthur? You say you do, you say that you hear me, but do you really? Because I am sick and tired of shouting at you above everybody else just so you can hear my voice. You said that I was your friend, that you trusted me with your life. Then why can you not just listen? Listen to me, because all that is unsaid I have spoken but it all just goes unheard by you. I’m tired of yelling, Arthur; sick of waiting for you to see that I’ve given everything for this.” It is unspoken what ‘this’ exactly was, but it hangs in the air between the two men with silence as its companion.

Merlin scoffs under his breath at the look of shock and surprise on Arthur’s face. For one that has been trained to kill since birth and brought on an obscene amount of hunting trips that he imagines requires some sort of special training of the eyes, Merlin cannot believe how _blind_ Arthur truly is.

“I’m going to go on this quest, sire. With your blessing or not.” The sorcerer casts his king one more look before he turns in a flurry of blacks and blues to the dark old door. A strong hand clamps down on his wrist, hard and painful, but Merlin does not flinch. Arthur can be stubborn, but so can he. Merlin tilts his head to meet his king’s gaze, steadfast and stubborn. Two can play at that game. Arthur sees something in Merlin’s eyes, an old flame sparking and igniting, an old obstinacy that makes Arthur shiver from nostalgia. His fingers fall from Merlin’s pale, thin wrist. The king holds his hand to himself, as if burned. Later, in private, Arthur will simply stare at his unscathed fingers and reminisce at the old familiarity of the tingle beneath his fingertips. Maybe he’ll even run them over his lips until the crown calls and he has to be king once more. But until then, he will revel in all the time he’s burned and in all that he could have had.

“You would commit treason against the king of Albion?” His lips form easily over the words, as it should have been, for it is familiar. Uther had uttered those very words a million times, a victory call to the old king’s ears, a death sentence to others. It is the completely wrong thing to ask. Merlin sighs, Arthur still isn’t listening. Merlin simply shakes his head as Arthur continues to stammer and speak; he hasn’t felt this out of control in years. The king can only watch as his sorcerer throws open the door to leave against his will. Arthur tries one last time, his order almost desperate in its nature and call. “Listen to me!”

Merlin pauses as his foot is a step away from leaving the room. The sorcerer smiles a little, a secret smile to no one but himself. It’s worth one more shot. One more call and cry in the darkness. “It’s tiring isn’t it?” A pause. “You know me, Arthur. I’ve never listened to you.” Then he’s gone, hurried footsteps echoing away from the king’s chambers. Arthur leans heavily against the table, his fingers digging holes in the soft, worn wood. The king buries his head in his hands and clutches his arms to himself tightly. His mind races in circles as he hears the echoes of Merlin’s words in his mind. Ringing. Haunting him. When Guinevere comes in and her soft hands caress his face, Arthur has to force his thoughts away from the fading flares beneath his fingertips. Arthur has to wrench himself away from the sting of Merlin’s words. He knows Merlin. Why then did Merlin speak of himself as if he were dead and gone?

  


Merlin sighs against the door to his chambers, the warmth of his home embracing him like an old friend. The sorcerer smiles as he picks Sebille up and kisses her soft white ears, her happy squeaks the only sound in the room as Merlin feeds her small pieces of leftover cheese. Finally, the sorcerer thinks as he closes his eyes against the gentle tickling of her fur, peace and quiet-

“You cannot go!”

The doors bang open with a whirl of bright reds and gold. Merlin sighs and rolls his eyes, gently slipping Sebille into his large front pocket. The sorcerer turns to look at Gwaine, an eyebrow raised. Fucking knights and their air for the dramatic. They were mighty good at popping in right when they were unwanted. “What do you want now, Gwaine? I’m going and that’s that! I do not need anymore of your help, _thank you very much_. I am not a bloody child! There is a _line_ and you crossed it weeks ago!”

Gwaine grits his teeth and shoves Merlin against the wall, ignoring his wince as his hurt arm hits the hard stone. Papers fly around them, adding to the mess of the room. Frantic squeakings sound from the inside of Merlin’s pocket but Gwaine ignores it. The knight’s eyes rest on Merlin, and only Merlin.

“You say you can take care of yourself, Merlin, and I believe that. I just don’t believe that you want to. When you finally wake up and see that you’re not alone, that _I’m here for you_ , I’ll back away.” Gwaine doesn’t move back, his breath hot on Merlin’s face. “Until then, I’m staying right here.” Gwaine swipes his thumbs against the dark stains of insomnia under Merlin’s eyes, sighing. “I saw you, you know. With Morgana and Morgause. You let them take you; _there was no bloody stone_. You let them hurt you, _burn_ and _brand_ you, like a sorcerer at the stake, punishment-”

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, his fists in tight balls as he beats against Gwaine’s unmoving chest. “Stop. Stop! _You don’t know anything!_ ” He could see it behind his eyelids: the bright hot reds of the metals, the hiss and smell of burning flesh - his flesh. Laughter rang; the very same laughter that plagues his mind at night. Merlin could see the cave ceiling, rocky and dark, words for death and pain scrawled on it in blood. His blood. They had wanted, they wanted him to-

Gwaine pushes away. “I don’t know anything, do I? Fine. But I do know this: _I’m not going anywhere._ And I’m definitely not stopping until you are you again.” With every word Gwaine beat his fist into the rock wall beside Merlin’s head, his dark calloused fingers bruising on impact. Merlin hears a heavy sigh, tired and weary, just like he is. The sorcerer hears footsteps lead away and the creaking of the door before the knight speaks again. “I miss you, my friend.” Then the door creaks closed once more and it’s silent again.

Tears streak his vision as Merlin reaches into his pocket to hold Sebille. Her small white body is trembling slightly, her ears downturned as her shrill squeaks fill the air. “Shhh, Sebille. Shh.” Merlin kisses her warm body, his tears wetting her fur. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay,” he promises his companion.

He lies.

  


Merlin stares at his travel bag made out of old brown cloth, its corner torn, its strap broken. It’s ridiculous really, the idea that he’s kept this bag for so long. Stupid, and not just a little pathetic. He sighs, but continues to pack all his stuff into the broken bag anyway. He can’t find it in himself to fix it, with magic or otherwise. It feels wrong to fix things now, to mend things that would make his life easier. Instead Merlin simply trudges on, another broken item added to the long list, corporeal or otherwise. He doesn’t deserve an easy life. If anything, he doesn’t think he deserves life at all. But… Death was supposed to be an endless sleep, wasn’t it? A painless numbing of the senses. A loophole, an exit route in the otherwise endless blur of breaths and heartbeats. Sleeping is easy. Well, it was anyway, Merlin muses. So… death must be easy. Simple. Easier than this anyhow. Merlin thinks he understands now why he’s lived so long. Death, death is easy. Life’s hard. Merlin has never had things come easily.

He folds his official robes and slips them into the pack before adding his book of sorcery; not that he needs it, but still, it’s the little things that made home, well, home. He throws it into the mix of seemingly random items, not many would guess it is truly everything the wizard owns. The small wooden dragon roared; a shower of sparks set his shirt alight. Merlin jumps, his hands slapping at the flame to put it out, scorching his fingers. He barely notices the pain. Merlin turns to glare at the little wooden dragon that is innocently faking a yawn and curling up in his dark blue cloak.

The sorcerer scowls.

“Oi! Was that necessary, Archie? Really? You’re being incredibly ridiculous, you know. Very rude.” The tiny wooden dragon simply blinks a single, lazy, wooden eye. Smoke trails in the air from its nostrils as it breathes out slowly. Merlin simply rolls his eyes. Dragons. He grumbles under his breath as Sebille crawls up his arm to nuzzle his cheek. Merlin chuckles, swiping his lips on her soft fur. “See, Archie? At least Seb’s _polite_. You could learn a thing or two from her, you ginormous oaf.” Sebille lets out a series of squeaks that sound extremely smug (for a mouse, that is). Merlin smirks before setting her down besides the indignant wooden dragon that seems to narrow his wooden eyes into slits and glare at the white mouse who didn’t appear frightened at all. Good for her, Merlin thinks, his thoughts drifting back to packing as Sebille snuggles into the sorcerer’s dark cloak, right up against the wooden dragon.

Ridiculous.

  


The sorcerer casts a look around, his dark blue eyes scanning his room for things he may have forgotten. He had jammed, forced and pushed everything into that damn bag until it was filled to the point of bursting. It didn’t occur to him that a simple shrinking spell would have done the trick until now, of course, which is exactly why he has to unpack and repack all over again. Frankly, he always feels quite empty without the feeling of his heavy bag against his thigh, thudding on his leg when he walks. But still, Merlin was never one to pack light and he’d have to move quickly and silently on this particular trip. There is no room for error on this one, not when Arthur’s life is at stake. Like it always is. Stupid ignorant git.

Merlin plops the books into his bag, just miniscule blocks of paper now, and tries to develop some sort of organized system. Needless to say, he utterly fails when he gives up and begins randomly chucking things into his pack two minutes in. He decides to just sort through it all later. Much, much, much later. Maybe. He throws in potions (cure for burns and boils? Or maybe an aphrodisiac for that stubborn mare?) carefully labeled with their prices (cures, one gold coin; aphrodisiacs, one shiny silver coin; love potions, not for sale). Though pricing them is fairly useless, since he usually just gives them away for free anyway. The sorcerer finds it hard to deny help when he can give it, or charge those who need it. Merlin chucks in a couple of apples, some hard bread, and a couple chunks of cheese and he’s ready to go. He never has had the patience for packing. It’s like planning; organization never has suited him very well. He always was… spontaneous, he likes to call himself.

Foolish, Gaius called it.

Brave, Gwen calls it.

Idiotic, _he_ calls it.

The sorcerer visibly shakes himself, the goosebumps rising quickly on his skin as he takes in the complete silence of his rooms. He misses the companionable silence sometimes (all the time). It is rather pathetic, the way he feels the pangs of hurt stab into his heart everytime he is so much as reminded… Everything is a reminder, though. Merlin sees the prat in every little thing these days. Extremely pathetic. Merlin never thought he’d be the pining sort, but that seems to be all he does these days. _Pine._ Even the little words and seemingly nonsensical things; prat, idiot, clotpole, supercilious, prince, camelot, loyal, good, beautiful, precious, past, future, ruler, lover, friend, king. Arthur. Even his own name hurts sometimes. Merlin.

He’s almost grateful for his title: High Sorcerer of Albion. ‘Lord’ to some, ‘sir’ to others. Merlin doesn’t mind it when the children say his name though, or when Gwaine sighs it sometimes after he sees Merlin eating properly. He especially doesn’t mind when they laugh and his name is the word that falls off their tongue first. It makes him believe that there truly is a reason for living. If there is no other reason to live besides to create joy, make joy, have others feel joy, then there is no reason, is there?

He sighs, hands on his hips as he glares at his main sources of companionship curled and asleep with each other on his cloak. Comfortable. Warm. He’s almost tempted to let them sleep a little while longer. Sleep had been especially bad the last couple hours. His tossing and turning was worse than he could ever remember it being; the screams were deafening, the voices louder than ever. Then, something new, a recent memory mixed with that of old.

 _You continue to intrigue me Merlin…_

 _Why does a simple sorcerer (lowly servant)…_

 _Continue to risk everything for a king (prince) and Albion (Camelot)?_

Merlin visibly shakes himself from his reverie, the hairs standing pin straight on the back of his neck. Breath in. Breath out. In. Out. He will set things straight. All will be right in the world again. Without him, everyone will be safe. Arthur will be safe. Merlin has to make Albion safe for the future children Arthur and his queen will have. It’s the least he can do after all the death and war he’s caused - all those lives he’s been unable to save. His eyes sting with unshed tears. The sorcerer calms, finally managing to slow his heart and calm his thoughts, goosebumps still whispering across his skin accompanied by shivers and slight quivers of the lip. Not that anyone besides Sebille and Archie would ever know, and they were asleep. He knows what he’s doing (sometimes).

Merlin pauses for a single second, his arms wrapped around himself. His dark blue eyes scan the small room, bare, empty, everything squished and jammed into his tiny pack. He’s ready. Merlin sighs softly before turning to his companions. He has no choice but to wake them now. He gently prods them awake, fingers soft but insistent against soft fur and hard wood. “Archie. Seb. It’s time to go now. It’s time to say goodbye.” Seb and Archie wake, the white mouse crawling into his cupped palms while Archie simply glares. Merlin has no time for this right now; it’s time to go. “Come on, Archie. Say goodbye to Camelot.”

Merlin walks up to the small, familiar window beside his bed. He runs one of his hands along the worn stone edges, comfortable and almost warm beneath his fingertips. Sebille lets out a soft squeak and he smiles down at her, raising the mouse up to rest on the window sill as he looks out onto the beautiful city, the city he helped build. The very same city he will now have to leave. The flames from candlelights leap in the darkness, casting shadows far and wide. Merlin can’t help but feel that they’re following him. They always have, after all. He feels a weight on his shoulder and he jerks slightly, causing the wooden dragon to take to the air again, bright eyes indignant. Archie huffs, a trail of smoke shoots out of his nose with flames accompanying it, setting a corner of Merlin’s hair aflame. Seb lets out an angry squeak. Merlin just grumbles under his breath and wets his fingers with his saliva to put the small fire out. “Brat,” he shoots, but the small wooden dragon simply ignores him and lands on his shoulder again, heavier and with less care this time, as if impatient. Merlin rolls his eyes. Dragons.

The trio stands at the window, looking out into the city. Camelot is dark, but as the moon crawls into view behind the clouds its silvery white light falls over the city and Merlin is sure that this is Avalon. How can there be more than this? How could this ever end? It seems impenetrable, unbreakable, immortal and eternal. He feels a sense of pride that it is his wards that keep Camelot and its people safe. That finally, _finally_ his magic can strengthen Camelot, and fill its very foundations with his soul - the magic that makes up his very core. Merlin lets himself smile slightly as the nostalgia sinks fast into his bones. He remembers a night much like this one, a long long time ago, when he first arrived in this strange city. He remembers the old king and his tyranny, the burning of sorcerers and the clang of metal, the swords of soldiers. But Merlin also remembers the good things and the beautiful moments that he will never let go of. He can't forget them. Soft laughter in the throne room, the hunts in the woods that were more about living freely than killing, those little moments of shining glory. The (not really) defeat of the Great Dragon, the (temporary) killing of the unicorn, and the (real) saving of Prince Arthur (more than once to be exact). If Merlin lets go of these little moments, these bright flares in the blind blackness of the abyss, what could possibly be left in the world? _Ugliness? Darkness? Himself?_ He doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it.

The sorcerer steels himself. This is ridiculous. He’s procrastinating, drawing out every stupid little moment so he’d leave a little later and stay a little longer. His fingers linger on the cool glass of the window before he yanks it shut with a loud slam, the delicate frame shuddering from the force. “Time to go,” Merlin calls to Seb and Archie, even though they’re right there, in his hands and on his shoulder respectively. They say nothing (not that they could anyway) and Merlin feels a little better inside. His voice echoes in the sudden empty silence, his footsteps ring on the hard stone floor as he leaves his room, his home. But not really. Gaius is gone, as are those moments filled with so much acceptance and love and _family_ , and sometimes Merlin feels like he will burst. He’s not really leaving his home behind, though. After all, everything he owns is with him in the pack by his side. Isn’t it said that possessions all that make up a home? Merlin’s pretty sure he’s got the saying wrong.

He doesn’t turn back to gaze at the single bed sitting in the now seemingly big room as he reaches back to pull the wooden door gently closed. Merlin knows what it looks like. He knows the pillow will look soft but in desperate need of fluffing, the sheets will be rumpled, troubled by insomnia and his sleeplessness. Merlin knows the loose floorboard beside his bed will creak loudly the next time someone steps on it, but it won’t break. It’s decidedly stubborn, just like him. It’s been stepped on, stomped on, and scratched at by a wide array of humans and animals but still it continues to survive and keep his secrets. It’s almost a friend.

His fingers don’t linger on the handle for longer than a second, ghosting skin on hard, familiar wood. But then the sorcerer continues to walk to the outer door, each step leading him further away from home. His eyes memorize every scrap piece of paper on the floor, every potion bottle that is out of place, and every book stacked on top of others, light coatings of dust on every one. These are all his, strictly speaking, but Merlin feels wrong going through Gaius’ things. It feels odd and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth at even the thought of moving Gaius’ things where he did not intend them to be. These books may be in Merlin’s name now, but Gaius was the one who loved them and read them, eyes straining to learn every page and always succeeding even when they grew old and the light darkened outside. Still Gaius would continue to read and pour over seemingly endless amounts of text, that’s what candles are for after all.

He could still see it now, the first day he had entered this room, unbeknownst to him that this would be his home in more ways than one. He hadn’t known he would have a family too. A father. A small sad smile flickers on the sorcerer’s lips as he reaches the door. He can almost hear Gaius chide him, _‘idiot!’_ , and raise a single eyebrow at him. The eyebrow of doom, he and Arthur used to call it. Gaius was certainly menacing enough when he wanted to be. The court physician was even known to put the king into his proper place from time to time, with respect and propriety of course. Naturally.

Merlin pauses at the open door, his lips parting to breathe a single word as his fingers caresses Seb in his pocket, gently petting her soft white ears. He feels pressure on his cheek and sees Archie leaning into him on his shoulder. Merlin closes his eyes briefly and he can almost feel soft warmth from the little wooden dragon. It’s the magic of course, a living pulse, a heartbeat, a _soul_ in the intricately carved wooden body. The wooden head nuzzles Merlin’s cold cheek and he smiles softly, a gentle breath - a word ghosted into the air. A simple word was muttered, the word that ends everything and starts all. The word that everyone must say, though no one wants to but eventually must. There really is no avoiding some words. Merlin sighs, the creak of the wooden door opening and the gust of wind rushing in, scattering parchment everywhere and caressing Merlin’s face. The word, that treacherous word when finally said is lost to Camelot and its dark nights and starry skies.

“Goodbye.”

And the sorcerer along with his companions are gone. They leave behind echoes of what were and what could have been, but the memories will stay with them forever. Imprints, footsteps left in the sand long after its owners are gone, dark lines etched forever into the shadow and shade of one’s mind, never to be erased.

  


Merlin slips out into the dark, the echoes of his boots on cold hard stone. His pale face is passive and withdrawn, a cool mask of complete utter calm, but inside his heart is beating fast and his chest rising and sinking with hard shallow breaths. The wind whistles through the familiar stone walls, the sound soothing and pacifying as each step takes Merlin further from home and everything he knows.

This feeling is familiar and gut wrenching, an old emotion of uncertainty and a hint of fear in the face of the new and unknown. It was Camelot then, with Ealdor lurking in the back of his mind, the very picture of home. So much has changed since then: hard stone columns, tall and strong, replacing the thin wooden walls of Ealdor. Merlin felt so safe when he first entered Camelot’s walls, her heartbeat and soul seemed to wrap around him and hold him close; he felt a part of something so much bigger and so much more permanent than he could ever hope to be. He had two homes then, but soon Ealdor, with its soft lulling streams and slow heartbeat, began to fade away. It began to be replaced by Camelot and her constantly racing heart; she was dangerous and safe all at the same time, the beautiful rush that came with being _needed_ and _wanted_ was intoxicating. But then the dead bodies began to pile up. How many men has he killed? A hundred in year, a thousand in two, three, four? Camelot’s skies don’t seem that blue anymore, the water not as sweet and the wind not as cool. Colours seemed to fade and dull and Gaius’ quarters and his little room became his only solace. And Arthur.

Arthur always managed to be his only sanctuary and respite during dark times (well, _any_ time if he’s being honest). That blond-haired, blue-eyed menace with his deceptively innocent pink lips just made him feel _right._ Arthur’s presence always seemed to be able to calm Merlin’s thoughts and let his mind, usually wound so tightly with stress and worry, finally loosen. Sometimes, for the first time in days, the sorcerer could just… _breathe._ His heart and his magic seemed to sigh at the same time, as if being far away from Arthur had physically hurt and _ached_. Not that he would ever tell anyone that of course, except maybe Seb and Archie. But that would only be if he felt right that day; some days - some days there aren’t enough words in the world to describe the things he’s feeling.

Merlin’s hand slips in his front pocket and begins to nervously stroke Sebille’s fur. His eyes dart around the corridor for any signs of the guards. He definitely wouldn’t put it past Arthur to physical restrain and prevent him from leaving, the king is extremely stubborn that way. But hey, so is he. Merlin sees no one, the corridor covered in shadow as the moon hid behind a stone pillar, the magnificent white light obscured and blocked. His breath is shaky and he digs his fingernails into his empty palm to try to sate the nervous energy tightly wound inside his chest. It is slowly riling his magic up as well; he can feel it stretching and coiling, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Merlin’s breathing stutters as he hears an owl’s screech somewhere in the dark night, no doubt finding its midnight meal.

His hand tightens almost unnoticeably around Sebille as she shivers slightly in his grasp, her body shaking under his fingers. “You’re okay, we’re-” He freezes, his mouth snapping shut. The sharp painful click of his teeth is loud and he winces. Merlin’s eyes narrow as they scrutinize a sleeping Gwaine, who is sprawled out in the small alcove and hidden by the corner wall. The knight is tucked into himself, his usual bright red cape replaced with the dull, dark purple he prefers. Merlin smiles down at the knight. Gwaine is snoring gently, his chest falling and rising in a steady rhythm that soon begins to calm Merlin as well. The sorcerer’s heartbeat slows and his breathing calms. It isn’t long before Merlin loosens his grip on Seb, his hand simply providing a warm bed for the lazy mouse to curl in on and fall asleep.

Gwaine’s head rests on the hard stone wall and Merlin is almost tempted to summon a pillow and slip it under his long, dark curls. He resists and instead kneels down close to his friend. Their faces are inches apart and Merlin cannot help but smile at all the obvious laugh lines on his knight’s face. There are ones that come from worry as well, hiding in the space between his eyebrows, and Merlin cannot help but run light fingertips over them. That’s when he notices the telltale dark smears under Gwaine’s eyes, the universal sign of a complete lack of sleep. They look like bruises. Though far less extensive than his own, Merlin cannot bear to see his friend look so… tired, so completely weary. Merlin simply cannot condone the idea of the knight feeling like him. It’s a terrible way to feel, a terrible way to think.

Weariness is all Merlin knows how to do now anyway, the only way he knows how to carry on. Sleeplessness, dreamlessness, memories. Sleeplessness, dreamlessness, memories. Repeat. Insomnia, reminisces, pain. Repeat. It gets old, waking up (was he really asleep in the first place?) and having to stare into the mirror at his own reflection. It hurts to see the seemingly permanent downturn of his cracked and chapped lips, the scratches that run down his cheeks where he has raked his fingernails over his face in aggravation over his inability to just fucking _sleep._

There were especially bad nights when sleep would finally crawl into the edges of eyes and the screaming was so loud his ears rang and he felt like they were bleeding, when the memories seemed somewhat harsher and so more painful even though they always stayed the same. After those nights, Merlin would be forced to magic away the dark shades beneath his bloodshot eyes. He’d be forced to endure the disgust pooling in the pit of his stomach as he let the minimal amount of magic sink into his skin from his fingertips. He could feel his magic yearning for touch inside of him, but he simply shoved it away, deeper and further away inside himself.

Merlin doesn’t feel he deserved to be healed. All the lives he could have saved, all those people he shouldn’t have killed. (He should have found another way to stop them. A _better_ way).

Yet there he always is, stuck to the surface of his mirror, golden tendrils sinking into his sickly flesh. Healing. He doesn’t deserve any of it. After countless mornings of the healing sessions and the self-evaluations in the mirror, Merlin just couldn’t take it anymore. He was growing thinner, scrawnier, weaker. Funny, that the healing part of it all hurt him more than anything else.

Merlin would scramble for the bucket beside the window mere seconds after he had healed himself. The disgust coiling and poking at his insides would just be too much to bear. Merlin vomited into the bucket, his coughing lurching his thin frame as he heaved for breath. When he finished, Merlin leaned his forehead against the cold stone and reveled in the comfort brought by a worried Sebille and Archie, curled in on his shoulders and holding on for dear life each time he shivered.

Every time after, Merlin would thank whatever deity was listening or watching that day hadn’t been the one where Gwaine walked in before he healed himself. He could deal with Gwaine after, but he didn’t think he’d ever be able to handle it if Gwaine knew the pain and effort it took for Merlin to use his magic on himself.

The knight had found him lying spent beside the bucket more than once and the pain in his dark brown eyes was unbearable. Gwaine would say nothing, simply helping Merlin up and leading him into the outer chambers where Gwaine kept an extra mattress (his own: feathery, soft, and way too good for the likes of Merlin) for occasions just like this. Merlin’s bed would be completely destroyed after nights of particular unrest, his mattress drenched in sweat and with corners torn from fits of anger brought on by the constant elusion of sleep. Gwaine has tried to get him to replace his bed altogether, so has Arthur for that matter, but he just obstinately insists that it is his bed (and he would die in it). He never had the energy to argue those mornings, though, and he would let Gwaine tuck him into the soft mattress, the knight’s cape draped over Merlin to keep him warm. The sorcerer’s eyes would slip closed and he would just listen to Gwaine bustling about, the scuffing sound of his boots on the floor and the shuffle of papers as he attempted to clean and gave up. The footsteps began to sound further away as he listened to the knight enter his bedroom, hesitating at the door before he began to clean. The knight cleared the bucket and began to right the room once more. The angry fits of magic in the night certainly do not help the already disorganized mess that is his room.

Merlin would feel a warmth then as the knight came and sat by his side and mended the sorcerer’s torn sheets and pillows. Then, sometimes, he’d feel the heat grow inside his chest and the soft tingling of his magic wanting to lean out and caress. Its reaction was certainly not as strong as when he was around Arthur, but… his magic was lonely. Merlin guessed he sort of was too. He’d feel it inside of him, the doubt, that stray thought that maybe… _maybe_ he could live like this, with Gwaine by his side and a soft bed for both of them to share. Merlin would love him, he _does_ love him. But, no, they’re just friends. As close as they get to the line, they never cross it. Not that they can’t, they almost have a couple of times, but mostly because it’s all wrong. They’re too close, as close as two friends can get. They know the other inside out and they also know that together, like _that_ , they would never last.

Now, their friendship, that’s different. That will last forever (he hopes). After too many of those mornings and those horrendous nights, the pain that is etched inside his friend’s eyes and the weariness that seems to be permanently engraved on both their faces is just too much to bear. Gwaine doesn’t know what causes the especially bad mornings and the vomiting that ensues, and Merlin guesses he should just be thankful for small favors. The fact that he’s affecting others, _Gwaine_ , makes the guilt burrow even deeper and further inside himself, the pinpoints of it piercing at his insides. The nausea blanketed him in waves, receding for mere moments before arising again.

What was worse was the constant flurry and buzz of emotions behind it, the pain, the sorrow, the guilt but most of all the exhaustion. It was all too much to bear. The sorcerer had to find another solution, one that wouldn’t hurt him so, one that wouldn’t hurt anybody else. Merlin had spent hours scouring over books and every scrap piece of parchment he could find. It certainly didn’t help that he had absolutely no idea what he was looking for. _The cure for illnesses of the mind, perhaps?_ It would fix his nausea certainly, but he hadn’t had much luck in the past with such cures and Merlin did not want to take that chance.

 _Essence of a unicorn’s horn to erase one’s heart of all aches and pains?_ Merlin had two problems with that particular cure. For one, a unicorn was not very easily attainable. And two, frankly the consequences were entirely too severe. Not to mention that the potion was completely vague about aches and pains. Were they physical? Emotional? And if so, for how long? A little more detail would have been absolutely lovely. Then there was the other supposed cure. _A scale of a dragon to remove all scars._ The dragon wasn’t a problem; Kilgharrah would gladly help him. Maybe. Well, if the cryptic beast was feeling particularly charitable he would help, but there was just no telling with him. The little details were what stumped him, as they always did. Once again, would the healing be just physical, or emotional as well? Merlin is scarred everywhere.

In the end, it was funny that Gwaine was the one who found the spell, unknowingly or not. It was one of those mornings and he had just managed to heal the bruises and scratches on his face. He had raked his nails over his eye that night and it required a just a _little_ more magic than usual. Just a little more, an almost unnoticeable amount actually, but the nausea hit hard and fast. The waves of it dunked him under as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. His hands that still lingered over his face fell to his sides, their mission complete. He could feel the tingle, the slight ‘zap’ as his magic left his fingers only to sink into his face. Merlin hated himself for the sigh of relief that seemed to echo deep inside him as his magic returned. He didn’t deserve it. He doesn’t. All the things he has done, all the people he had killed, all the people he has failed to protect. Merlin doesn’t deserve to be healed and saved.

His magic called out inside him as he fell to the floor, his hands twitching by his side to do something - _anything_ \- to save himself. The sorcerer couldn’t feel much apart from the searing pain in his head and the guilt pricking once more at his insides, eating and burning away at his soul. The cold stone was hard behind his head, but he couldn’t stop his body from shuddering and convulsing. His limbs flailed and his fingers twitched. His head hurt.

A shout.

The sound echoed loudly in his ears and the sorcerer would have flinched if he could. He felt fingers digging into shoulders and a frantic voice yelling what he thought was his name. Merlin couldn’t see. There were only blurs, bright and dark colours, brown, red, gold. They were too fast and if they’d only just _slow down_ , then maybe he’d been able to see. Suddenly the only thing he could see were those wretched blurs in bloody red. Then he couldn’t see anything at all.

Merlin was consumed by darkness.

The pain dulled from the searing white burn to a low throb beneath his skin, but still he groaned, loud and complaining. It was his bloody luck to hit the only hard surface on his way down. Merlin stretched, feeling the soft mattress under his body creak. His muscles ached, warm and tight. The sorcerer’s eyes blinked closed for a second and he sank back, luxuriating into the warm embrace of... Merlin’s eyes flew open and he froze, every muscle locking into place. Who… Merlin stared down at the single hand thrown across his chest, tanned fingers calloused and strong from hours on working a blade. They looked so warm and completely unlike Arthur’s. Merlin tried to ignore the disappointment that sank heavy in his gut, the hope that had risen inside only to be dampened, killing him with every breath. Disappointment was easy, that he could live and deal with, just like anybody could. It was the hope of it, the sheer quantity of it all that left his heart pounding with loss and his head reeling. Hope could kill a man.

Merlin shifted slightly, surprised at the lack of exhaustion and the lightness of his eyelids, unladen with the usual weight of fatigue. There was a grunt, some mumbling and the arm was wrenched away. The other body angled away, still completely and totally fast asleep. The sorcerer rose slowly, bones cracking and clicking from sleep, and he winced, glancing over at the knight who was still in slumber’s warm comprise. Gwaine’s curly, dark hair was piled under his face making a pillow of sorts that made the knight’s nose twitch and sniffle. Merlin watched his eyes flicker beneath his closed eyelids, fascinated; he could not help but wonder what his friend was dreaming of. Merlin hopes they were good dreams, happy dreams. The sorcerer wants the knight to have visions of sunlight, horses running on Camelot’s lush green land, the golden dragon of Camelot roaring and setting the blue skies aflame with pride and honor. Too many of them, knight and townsfolk alike, already had nightmares, nightmares that were blurred far too easily with the memories carefully hidden and locked beneath all regular thought. Regular thoughts that were appropriate for the daylight, fake happy thoughts that would help the smiles come easier and the lies come faster - normal thoughts, safe thoughts - those he could manage.

The sorcerer smiled softly at his friend, fingers combed gently through Gwaine’s hair as his eyes continued to move behind his eyelids. What he wouldn’t give to be able to dream again. The sorcerer stood and swayed unsteadily on his feet but caught himself on the edge of the table just in time. It would be just his luck to faint twice in a row. Merlin sighed. He really is a complete girl. He waddled over into his room, climbing the familiar stairs with ease as his eyes swept over the carnage. His room looked like a tornado had hit it. Blankets were strewn over the floor, chairs were knocked over, and papers were lying haphazardly on the stone ground. The sorcerer sighed at the damage, wincing as the guilt began to creep back into his skin. Gwaine must have seen it, seen him at his worst. How scared must he have been, how worried? Merlin peeked out the door to look at Gwaine’s motionless form, cuddled into his cloak that he had draped over them, still sleeping. Still dreaming.

That was when he found it, the single slip of parchment amongst the hundreds, the only one he’d missed. A single word was scrawled over the top of the page as if the author had been in a rush and wrote the spell on the first available surface he saw.

Ink was splattered across the parchment and Merlin narrowed his eyes, trying to read the scratchy, reed-thin writing that was not unlike his own.

 _Glamour_ , it read. _For everyone with everything to hide._

The sorcerer scrutinized the piece of parchment, flipping it over to see nothing but the single spell that could either make or break his life. Merlin was leaning towards the ‘making’ part, however the ‘endless rest’ part of death still intrigued him. He would never have to have those horrid nightmares again, where he was the key, the great weapon of destruction in a losing war between desperate men. He would never have to wake up into a worse reality either, a reality where he was no one - a pawn in a game all too big for the likes of him. Maybe whatever god or higher being was out there would do him a favor (just one, he really doesn’t ask for much) and take away his memories of Arthur (and those stupid feelings). With them gone maybe the hope that rose every time, no matter long it had been or how low it had sunk, would stop tormenting him. Merlin only hopes that when he dies it will slowly go away. It was worth a shot.

There was a single word beneath the dark text, a single word that could possibly solve all his problems. There would be no more healing spells, no more of those terrible bouts of nausea and guilt, no more pitying looks that Gwaine cast him. None of that. Or if it all went wrong, the worst that would happen would be his death. That wasn’t too bad.

 _Ábeþecian._

Merlin heard sounds of waking then, the loud yawns as Gwaine rose. There was silence for a moment, then the sound of boots scuffing on stone as the knight rose quickly. When he spoke, his voice was tentative and colored with shades of fear and worry.

“Merlin?”

The sorcerer stilled, tucking the spell into the inside pocket of his robes.

Later, he promised himself.

And indeed, later he would.

Merlin glanced up as the knight pushed the small wooden door open gently. Gwaine’s dark brown eyes narrowed, visibly scanning the room for danger and checking Merlin for any sign that he was in less than perfect condition. Not that he was perfect to begin with, but still, Gwaine didn’t seem to be able to see that.

Then the worry was gone and the fury sunk in, his sigh loud and exasperated, a frown low between his eyebrows. The sorcerer hated seeing it there. He hated knowing that he was to blame for causing his friend such distress and worry. Merlin pressed a hand to his chest where he could feel the outline of the parchment beneath the scratchy fabric of his robes. He would fix things. He would make everything better, even if he had to die trying.

“Merlin. What happened?” Gwaine started, moving closer and offering a hand for Merlin to stand. Merlin simply stared at his friend, his mouth opening of its own accord and the words spilling over before he even had the chance to stop them.

“What were you dreaming about?”

Gwaine blinked, confused, and simply complied as Merlin wrapped his fingers around his wrist and pulled gently.

Both men sat next to each other in silence, their knees and sides warm where they touched. The lack of words, the silence, was comfortable and oh so warm. Who knew there’d ever be a silent anything with Gwaine? But Merlin was curious and he waited, holding his breath for the answer. When it came, Merlin wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Pheasants.” Gwaine stated, his eyes staring fixedly at their touching knees.

The sorcerer paused, and then nodded. He wasn’t even sure what possessed him to say what he did next, but he did so anyway.

“Was it a good dream?”

That time when Gwaine answered he turned his head to look at Merlin. Their eyes met, blue on brown, and they smiled, lips curled upwards minutely in soft surrender and apology. The knight let out a soft snort of laughter and brushed his hair from his face. Gwaine bumped his body into Merlin’s side.

“Yeah, yeah it was.”

*

Merlin blinks, his eyes refocusing, and shifts his weight from foot to foot. The sorcerer stares down at his friend and he smiles softly. He wants to apologize for everything, for the things he’s done and especially for the things he couldn’t (like saving himself). Instead, the sorcerer leaves, it’s the only thing he can do. What other possible way could there be to make things right? He’s nothing but a nuisance, a plague upon mankind. Merlin leaves nothing in his wake but death and destruction. The sooner this sickness fades and this disease dies the sooner more lives will be saved and happiness salvaged. Merlin allows himself one last look at his friend, and Seb one last woeful squeak. Archie does nothing, simply a strong and solid presence on his shoulder. His angel. His demon. Does he truly need either?

  


Merlin sneaks into the stables (quite silently and slyly, he thinks) and chooses a golden mare, her coat a beautiful sandy tan color. (It reminds him of the sand at the Labyrinth of Gedref). She’s sweet tempered and her large, light-blue eyes are soft and warm. “Hello, Iggy, girl. How are you?” He presses a kiss to her muzzle and she nickers, nuzzling him roughly and pushing her head into his chest.

Merlin smiles and chuckles when he hears an outraged squeak from his pocket. The sorcerer rolls his eyes. “Oh, you’re too sensitive, Seb.” There’s another angry squeak but Merlin just laughs and continues to saddle the mare. He makes quick work of the chore, having done it a million times for Arthur over the years. It’s not long before Merlin’s swinging up onto Iggy. Archie flutters wildly in the air from the lack of warning. The wooden dragon’s eyes narrow, wisps of smoke filling the air around Merlin’s head. The sorcerer feels his eyes tear. Smoke tickles his throat and eyes and he coughs, throat hoarse as he waves a hand in front of his face. “I- I’m sorry! Really, your tantrums are ridiculous, Archie.” The wooden dragon pointedly ignores him, flicking its spiked tail in his direction and perching on the front of the saddle.

Merlin really has to reconsider the requirements he has for friends. (Next time, absolutely no prats. Or princes).

“To the wilderness and beyond!” He dares to say, his voice that is always a considerable amount louder than others now many levels above the whispering he should be doing. Merlin snickers, frantically surveying the area for Arthur’s guards. When he sees none, the sorcerer tuts. Really, one would think after so many escaped prisoners and intruders the security of Camelot would be somewhat tighter. Albion’s finest indeed, he thinks as he sees a couple guards leaning against the wrought iron gate, asleep on their feet. The sorcerer strengthens the wards around Camelot, doubling her magical walls. Taller and stronger, he coaxes; his magic rises. As the sorcerer rides out of the gate the sound of Iggy’s hooves against the cobblestones fade into the muted thump of speed on dirt road, sending a shiver down his spine. Oh, sick nostalgia. The heroes went and saved the world. Again. A hidden sorcerer and a brave prince defying the king’s laws for the sake of an entire land. Fighting dragons, killing wildrens, and rescuing maidens. All in a day’s work, saving the lives of all others.

 _How then, did they forget to save themselves?_

The trees are tall and strong overhead, old and ancient. They see everything; the rise and fall of kings, the building and ruin of entire kingdoms. Yet they can never interfere. Merlin wonders how it feels to be so powerful, so strong, and yet be so completely helpless in the grand scheme of things. The stars are bright in the sky, diamonds against black velvet. They glow like fireflies in an ever-changing forest, so small, yet so bright. The sorcerer rides, the thrum of hoof beats never changing, the darkness to their light. Merlin remembers his mother, her arms around him on nights in Ealdor, not unlike this one. The trees are different, the ground has changed, but the skies and stars always stay the same. The wind is chafing on his soft skin but he blinks away the pain. As far and as long as he can, tonight. Away! Away, his blood sings, while his magic screams: Return! Return!

Merlin stopped listening to his magic a long time ago. He remembers crying as a child, his throat aching from unshed tears. Merlin would stare up at the stars and feel so completely small and helpless, so very weak. He would be struck in random instances in the day while he was playing with Will, picking strawberries with his mother on those cool spring mornings, or even while he was catching fireflies under the safe blanket of night. The grief would hit him fast and strong in the gut, paralyzing him. His knees would shake and his bottom lip would tremble, the all too familiar pain in his throat would return and before he knew it Merlin would be crouched in the fetal position with his hands around his knees. He didn’t know why it scared him so much back then, or why it was constantly in the back of his mind, but it was. It always was. Death.

Even in the happiest of times, when laughter was loud and the air was warm with love and affection, Merlin would suddenly be struck by the thought that one day he would die. The tears that came next were always nearly impossible to stop; he was inconsolable. Hunith’s eyes were always sharp and keen, watching for any signs of magic, as well as for what came to be known as Merlin’s ‘episodes.’ She was worried and confused, but who could blame her? He couldn’t have been any older than four when they began. It was- it was unnatural, even more so than his magic. Magic, Hunith could understand; magic is a part of the very core of things, the very foundations that nature and the world around them is built upon. But that, that Hunith would never understand. Children should be the ones who bury their parents, in the future when hair turns gray and the skin wrinkles. Children remain children until their parents die. Merlin’s sobs would always sound on the edge of hysteria, his voice hoarse from crying and whispering the same muttered utterance over and over. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” Hunith could do nothing but hold him close and tight; what could she have possibly said?

On some days, when the shaking was especially bad and his breathing was faster and shallower than usual, Merlin would ask questions, questions that Hunith couldn’t answer. Merlin wanted answers (he still wants them) to the questions that no one could ever answer. (Except maybe Kilgharrah could, but he would have just provided cryptic answers to confuse him anyway). “Why do we have to die? What happens when we die?” It was the idea of the emptiness of it all that scared him as a child. Would that be it? Would they all just… cease to exist? Would he? Then one day Hunith said something in passing, in an attempt to console her son, a line of words that drove deep into Merlin’s mind. The stars were bright and shining in the dark black sky when she looked up and responded to a simple question.

Merlin had whispered quietly into Hunith’s arm that he didn’t want to be forgotten. Will’s papa had died not even a year ago by that time, and it seemed like everyone but Will and his mama had forgotten about him already. Merlin didn’t want to be forgotten like that. Hunith had shushed him and pressed a soft kiss to his head.

“You’ll never be forgotten, love,” she had said to her son, the words falling from her lips as she stared at the stars. “The stars see it all. They will tell our story - they will tell your story, _cariad_. And see, up there?” Hunith pointed up at the miles of dark, vast desolation, the sky. Merlin never imagined the sky as a single entity, though it is united under a single name. No, he felt the sky was filled with things - shadows - at night. Shadows were the very bruises upon the earth that lurked too close to the flames and began to grow even in the afternoon, when the sun was high in the middle of the sky. The darkness is flecked with lights along the way: life, _hope_ that even in the darkest of times happiness can be found if one only remembers to turn on the light.

Hunith told her son that night that only the stories of great men are told among the stars. That only those who lived for others and truly loved one apart from himself would live forever. Hunith was a smart woman, so naturally she added that a man who ate his vegetables and never cussed had a one way ticket to living forever as well. She wasn’t lying, (not really).

The wind is loud in his ears, almost as loud the thudding of his heart and the sound of Iggy running beneath him. He snaps out of his reverie, her breathing has gotten faster and labored. Merlin wants to run, to lead danger away from Camelot as fast as he can, but he knows he has to bide his time. Iggy can’t take it; Merlin can’t either. He slows the gorgeous tan-coloured mare to a walk, his hand rubbing large circles at the base of her neck as he scopes the forest for a clearing to camp for the night. It isn’t long before he finds one and he sighs in relief as he dismounts Iggy, the muscles in his legs clenching and unclenching, relief flooding every pore. Merlin closes his eyes briefly, resting his forehead on Iggy’s crest. He listens to her rapid breathing begin to slow as her eyes begin to lose the wildness that always arises when they gallop swift and fast in the forest. It is hard to calm her down after that, but Merlin can’t blame her. After being held for so long who wouldn’t run with everything they had at the first sign of freedom? He would. He did.

The river is little, a small stream that flows down through a crack in the rocks above their heads. It gushes the cool crystalline water that flows through the clearing and off into the distance. Merlin idly wonders where it’s going as he pets Iggy and encourages her to drink. It’s dark and he really should sleep, there will be endless riding tomorrow if he is to reach the druids by nightfall. Merlin feels a pang of pain in his heart - nostalgia. They were such a peaceful people, old and pure, still untainted by the spoils of men who were young and angry with newfound power and soiled with the want of magic, power, weapons, of _more_. Always more. Merlin wonders when men will finally be happy with what they have; it’s so much easier to lose the very things you already have, after all.

Iggy lets out a high whinny, loud and happy. Merlin chuckles but shushes her softly, eyes darting around the clearing covered in darkness and shadow. The soft mound in his pocket moves, shivering, and Merlin is suddenly aware of the biting chill in the wind sinking quickly into his skin. Merlin leans closer to Iggy, preparing to tie the black leather reins to the fallen tree, but Iggy simply casts him an extremely withering look and finds herself a nice spot of grass which she begins to munch at happily. “Wha- Iggy! I’ve got to…” Merlin rolls his eyes and throws his hands in the air as Iggy lets out a soft, irritated wicker. “Fine, fine - always getting bullied by freaking animals. Naturally, they’re in charge. Merlin? Merlin _who?_ Oh, absolutely no one. He’s just a stupid dogsbody! Absolutely no one of any consequence. Nope, none at all. ” Merlin pouts, sitting next to Iggy, his arms folded on his lap.

Seb pokes her head out of his pocket, her pink nose sniffing the air as she scurries up his arm and into the crook of his neck. She nuzzles his cheek, her small and warm body providing friendly comfort. Archie lands on his knee, stretching out his wooden body, his tail flicking slowly in the air. The dragon’s golden eyes blink lazily as he yawns; trails of gray smoke drift into the air. Seb begins to nudge the sorcerer’s cheek with her cold nose, her body shivering with the low temperatures. Merlin glowers, beginning to get to his feet. “Alright, alright, you spoilt brat.” He stands up and makes his way to the edge of the clearing to collect some firewood.

Iggy stays, her mouth still working on the green leafy grass, keeping a trained eye on the clumsy sorcerer. Even she knows that despite the amount of power Merlin has, he is still a man to be protected and fussed over. The animals know how much looking after he needs. Humans just don’t have the patience to observe others for long. They don’t care much for those other than themselves. He groans slightly as he bends over to pick up the firewood, his sides and muscles hurt and he’d almost be worried if it wasn’t a nightly occurrence. The sharp sticks poke into his cool, soft palm as he grips it tightly, feeling the exhaustion creep forward from the back of his mind.

He wants to lay down to sleep, to close his eyes, but he knows he won’t be able to. The minute he lays down, the exhaustion is still there but always so far away; so completely out of reach. He’d get exasperated then, adding to the list of the million things he undoubtedly is. Frustrated, for example; not to mention weary, angry, resigned, and - last but not least - so incredibly tired. He’s not even sure that word is enough anymore. Merlin groans and begins to right himself, his bones clicking in his knees as he stands. He freezes, feeling the cold tip of a blade on his back. The air chills, trailing its invisible fingertips on his pale skin and leaving goose bumps in its wake. He hisses, feeling the blade dig slightly deeper into his back as he stands fully. Merlin turns quickly then, his eyes flashing gold as his magic snaps out - taut and angry at his attacker. The gold blurs his vision; the survival instinct kicks in and rids him of any threat. His attacker’s sword is flung to the other side of the clearing and his-

“Hey!”

Merlin’s magic stops before even he realizes who his attacker is. Before he can say a word, the sword is floating back to his attacker’s open hand - free for him to use. Merlin really can’t help the sudden urge to slap his forehead with his palm, or maybe he just might indulge himself with a good thwack to his head with a rock. A big one too, preferably the size of Kilgharrah. “What the hell are you doing here?” Merlin practically yells, his arms flying out to accentuate his incredulity and sending the very carefully chosen tree branches flying everywhere. Arthur simply rolls his eyes and begins to pick up the fallen branches after sliding his very pointy sword into its sheath. When the blond speaks, his voice is completely saturated with pure, condensed amusement.

“Close your mouth, Merlin. You look like more of an idiot than you already are.” The king smirks pointedly as the sorcerer’s mouth clicks shut.

“You almost skewered me, you giant pillock!” Merlin says. Well, shouts. The sorcerer really does not appreciate being pounced on like that. He has very well honed instincts and he does not appreciate the blast to his ego. Of course it has nothing to do with the fact that Arthur has managed to sneak up on him. Again. This is getting quite tiring.

“I did _not_ , you over-sensitive idiot!” Merlin glares at Arthur and the king returns the look with equal heat. The blond holds out the firewood and Merlin glances at it for a second before grudgingly grabbing it and stalking off to camp. The tension is pulled tight between the two as they lapse into a steely silence. It certainly doesn’t help that Merlin’s magic is completely ignoring his wishes and instead cooing over Arthur and practically _purring_ as Arthur runs a hand over its golden tendrils. The sorcerer scowls; spineless git, his magic is. Arthur purses his lips, his eyes widening as a sound like twinkling bells fill the air.

“Is it- is…?”

Merlin would really like that rock now. His presses his lips together tightly and nods. This truly is brilliant - his magic is _laughing_ now. Again. Maybe Arthur’s right, he really is a girl. Arthur sits across from him, a good distance away that speaks leagues about their relationship. Merlin and Arthur are obviously uncomfortable with each other, two men with tension between them as tight as an arrow on a bow, and to top it all off, a side of resentment and hurt feelings. They sit in a harsh and angry silence until Arthur complains about the cold, and that’s when everything goes to hell. “The least you can do is make a bloody fire, you useless _sod,_ ” Arthur says, his eyes narrowing as Merlin attempts, once again, to light the fire.

 _“Forbearnahn,”_ Merlin says, hand outstretched in front of him. But his magic does not return. The golden tendrils, like vines and veins of the tree of life, are still twirled around Arthur in an elegant embrace. Merlin grits his teeth angrily, his tongue as sharp as a whip as the thought crosses his mind - maybe he could just _give_ his magic to Arthur. Or someone, anyone really, because for once in his life Merlin doesn’t care what happens next. He already knows. Fire or not, whether it rains tomorrow evening or at noon, it will not prevent or stop what is happening. Nothing can ever stop it. Whether the fire lights or not, Merlin will go to the druids. He will go to the druids and there he will give his life to save Arthur’s and the King of Albion will live on. Nothing could possibly change the future, even if his stupid magic finally decides to return to him as it rightfully _should_ and light the fire on those damned wooden sticks.

“Nobody ever bloody listens to me,” Merlin mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. He hears a soft squeak, and soon Seb has crawled out of his pocket and onto his arm, rubbing her soft head onto his clenched fists. Before he knows it, he has unclenched his hands, his muscles loosening and relaxing as he gently strokes her furry white ears.

Arthur’s eyes widen before he starts to laugh. It is effortless and loud, but most of all, it’s real. Merlin hasn’t heard Arthur laugh, truly, truly laugh in a long time, years even. The sorcerer hasn’t the time to school his expression to one of disdain or disgust. Instead it is stuck on blatant shock, and maybe a little amusement. Arthur reels back at Merlin’s look - the king hasn’t seen such… _emotion_ from his sorcerer in… years. Other than anger and… disappointment. Arthur thinks it’s a good change. Merlin’s lips even begin twitching upward in a smile before he catches Arthur’s look and reels himself back.

He bites down hard on his lower lip, the pain stabbing at him until his mouth is nothing more than a flat, thin line - a bitter reminder of what could have and had been (once upon time), a smile that warmed hearts and tore down walls. The king is shaking his head, mouth parted in… shock? Loss? But it doesn’t matter; his hand is raised as if in want of reaching out to tickle the smile back onto soft lips, tease the color back into his pale cheeks. Maybe even to hold him until the pain and weariness is gone from his eyes. The king remembers his place and Merlin’s soon enough, however, and draws back his hand quickly. His eyes dart to the ground and the still unlit fire. Arthur clears his throat before speaking, his voice as clear and strong as it had been years before, on that very first day; and if it’s slightly less arrogant, well, Merlin is more than happy to take the credit for that. “Can’t even light a fire properly, can you, _Mer_ lin?”

Maybe not.

Arthur’s voice is slightly teasing, a thing of the past. The king is slightly unsure of how to act now that they are away from Camelot and her walls. They always used to be… friendlier, one could say, when they were away from Uther’s jurisdiction and immediate place of power. But now… now Arthur’s free of his father, if not even more burdened by the crown that now sits beside his bed on a perfectly plush purple pillow beside Guinevere, no doubt. Arthur is unsure; now that they are away from Camelot, is he allowed to tease again? Are they… friends?

Merlin is less than amused as he raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. The rage that bubbles underneath the surface, where it has been slowly simmering for years, finally boils over. The sorcerer’s eyes gleam gold as his magic begins to snap back to him, like a tightly coiled snake ready for the attack - its fangs sharp and poisonous, ready for skin. The golden tendrils seem to solidify in the air, taut and sharp. Arthur hisses through his teeth as one shoots past his jaw, slamming back into Merlin. The king raises a hand to his cheek, a droplet of blood violent red and opaque. When another golden tendril passes, it takes its time to get to Merlin, healing Arthur’s scratch with a shower of sparks. This does nothing to improve Merlin’s mood or temper. When he speaks the spell, he hisses it, his voice merely a whisper.

 _“Forbearnahn.”_

Golden eyes are locked onto bright baby blues until a column of fire bursts into existence between them. The flames are so tall they seem to lick the dark sky, scorching stars and killing chances of immortality at the same time, killing men all around the world and destroying their only hope of defying death. Merlin feels the shame rising in him at the very idea that he could do such a thing, but he’s just so _angry_ and everything else seems to simply pale and fade away behind that strong, wild rage. He’s livid and he can practically feel his blood boiling. The fire is growing higher and higher, Arthur’s eyes growing wider and wilder with fear. He wants to kill the stars, he realizes. Merlin wants to kill them all. He is tired, so fucking tired, and he hasn’t rested in years. He is angry at Arthur, at Uther, at Guinevere, Gwaine, himself, even at the stars; why do they get to live forever? Why does he have to die? Why do they all have to die? Smoke clogs their lungs and he can hear Arthur choking, his king is calling out his name - scared and desperate - but his magic is in him now. It’s finally responding; the old familiarity of the golden arrows is in his bloodstream. He hasn’t _felt_ so much in so long. It may be driving him mad.

“You do not command me,” he hears a voice say, but it can’t be his; how could he even dare? But sure enough, it’s his voice and his lips that speak the words and seal his fate as one of the condemned. But if he has to die he will take them all with him. There are squeaks, filled with fear and terror.

  


Merlin wants to hold her back when Seb scurries away to curl behind Archie on a nearby log but he can’t bring himself to do much else than raise the fire, urging it higher and higher. Arthur is getting to his feet slowly, one of his hands at his side to grasp at the hilt of his sword if his life is threatened; but his other is stretched out to Merlin. In a gesture meant to placate and calm, it only manages to build the sorcerer’s rage even greater. Who is this man to reach out a hand to touch Merlin? How dare he touch him? _He has no right._ How long until he had let Gwaine touch him, to let the knight hold his arm and rub circles into his back? It had taken months, a year, to get used to Gwaine’s touch again - to get used to the touch of another person, if Merlin’s being honest. It took so long, too many hurt feelings and fleeting glances - not to mention sleepless nights. Gwaine is his _friend_ ; he deserves to be.

The knight fought him with everything he had just to be able to tuck him into bed and swipe his hair away from his face in sleep. Merlin is angry _for_ Gwaine. Why does Arthur get to bypass everything? Every wall, every shield and armored attack with a simple glance, things that took Gwaine over a year to wear down and break? It’s not fair. A part of Merlin wants Arthur to touch him, to kiss him, to love him; that’s the worst part. What has that prat done for him in return? Does he realize even now how much he had taken on and dealt with from him, and Camelot as a whole? There are voices inside of him wailing for him to stop, to breathe and think this through. But gods, Merlin is so fucking angry. He can hardly see, the golds and tiny shreds of blue blur his vision and he can only see the reds of the fire, the shine of Arthur’s hair, the light baby blue of his-

“Merlin! I am your _king_. You _will_ obey!” Arthur is at a loss of what to do, and there’s a small part of Merlin that sees reason, he _should_ stop. But he doesn’t want to. The sorcerer laughs, an angry, breathless, spiteful sound.

“Obey, my lord? I break my bloody back for you, you stupid brat!” Merlin lets out a laugh - harsh and painful on the ears. Doesn’t Arthur see how much Merlin’s already lost? How much Arthur is solely responsible for driving away? His voice is softer after that, defeated and weary as he slumps back down to the ground. The flames lick in and onto itself as it collapses, falling smaller and smaller until it is simply an average campfire - but if its flames whip sharper and harder in the wind than other fires do, no one says a thing. “Everything I do is for you, and you just think I’m an idiot.” His hands are shaking, and Merlin wonders if he’ll be able to cast the sleep spell tonight; if he’ll be able to manage donning his glamour tomorrow.

Arthur says nothing, just a breathless curse - his name - but Merlin ignores it. Not now. There’s a sound, soft scuffling, a hand on his arm. It’s so fucking _warm_ and he’s been so cold for so long; just a little bit longer… The sorcerer pulls away first, face flushing. Dear gods, what has he done? But Arthur says nothing about his outburst. Those blue eyes are somewhat guarded and cautious, but not much more than usual. Merlin finds himself struck with an incredible want for bright, open, liquid chocolate eyes. He wants to be warm and loved, but Arthur is cold - to him anyway. When Arthur starts to speak, probably to say something stupid and inane to comfort like others do, Merlin begins to pull away from him. He’s leaned into the king’s touch for too long already; wouldn’t want to give him the wrong idea, he thinks bitterly.

“I - Merlin. I don’t think you’re a… You can be quite…” Arthur trails off. Circles of captured blue afternoon sky - Arthur’s beautiful eyes stare out at him as the stars above them glitter, those eyes plead for him to not have to explain. Of course, Merlin concedes, turning his body away completely. The sorcerer isn’t _human_. Of course not. That animal doesn’t need sleep, doesn’t need food or water, or even companionship. It doesn’t need hope, or faith, or _love_. Merlin doesn’t even need friendship; he is an animal - a sorcerer - filled with anger and bitterness. But at the end of the day he’s just a man, alone with the things he’s done, waiting to die. Alone.

Merlin’s so tired, exhausted. He just wants to sleep and never wake up. The shame isn’t buried far beneath the surface. Hunith’s words to him as a child, that hurting people for absolutely _any_ reason is wrong, echo deep inside him so loudly it hurts. Anger and jealousy are ugly colours, and Hunith hoped like every other parent, that her son was blind to them. Merlin isn’t of course, just like no one is. The colours had taken awhile to sink into his vision; crawling in at the edges like ink on parchment, curled at the corners. But ultimately, they had. The reality of it all slaps Merlin in the face, scorching its brands into his brain and skin. The sorcerer wouldn’t be surprised if it left marks on his magic either; bad intentions that form too easily and evil words that are too easily said tend to do that.

His hand shakes and his lower lip begins to tremble. What had he done? He had almost… almost - the stars. His and everyone else’s only hope at immortality. Merlin had nearly taken his only hope at living on even after the blood has stopped pumping through his body and filling it with the fresh flush of recycled life; of blood used, reused, and then spilt. Blood will be spilt all over the ground, only to sink into the soil where it will feed and sustain all who linger there; plants and animals will flourish as he slowly perishes - reused. How could he be so thoughtless? The only chance anyone would get to live forever, nearly destroyed. It isn’t as if he could have killed the stars (he could have - the stars are close tonight) it’s his intent, the pure _want_ he felt inside to let the world burn down to the ground. After all he knows, after all that his mother taught him, how had he allowed himself to slip so far? Exhaustion and weariness is no excuse. He should have _known_ better, dammit. What would she think now? Her son, a rotten, stupid, good for nothing, murderer that-

“Merlin! You need to rest, alright? I’ll keep watch for the night. Just - don’t fight me on this one, Merlin. Obey me, just this once, if nothing else.” Arthur has gotten closer, his eyes full of those indiscernible things that make people shiver. Arthur is everywhere and, gods, he can practically _feel_ the anger hiding behind and under Arthur’s façade. His voice is sharp and chillingly biting with the forced calm that Merlin has never really bought.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Merlin asks, voice slurred and barely understandable with need of sleep. His eyes are wide open though, trembling but ready. The sorcerer needs to cast the spell, the spell that will take him away, the incantation that will give him those few brief moments of respite and sanctuary - sleep. He pays dearly for those couple moments with his almost constant state of exhaustion, for those moments of sleep after the blissful instances of simply… not existing. Merlin pays for them with the terrible, painful memories from which sometimes he cannot rouse himself - forced to watch and re-watch his mistakes with absolutely no power to change them.

Arthur shushes him. “Tomorrow, Merlin. Now, where’s your pack?” Merlin grumbles to himself and snuggles closer to the fire, his arms folded over his chest.

“Don’t need one,” the sorcerer says, his eyes beginning to close as he feels his magic begin to respond to his desire of sleep, slipping out through his core and into his blood stream.

There’s an exasperated sigh and before he knows it the prat king is shaking him violently. “You will freeze, and then catch on fire, you idiot. It’s really no skin off my back, Merlin, but I do not care to explain to Gwaine why I have returned you to him damaged.” Merlin groans and tries to push Arthur’s annoying hands away, only earning him a proper slap on the back of each hand. Stupid meddling prat. But Merlin can’t keep out the slow warmth that builds in his very core. Arthur cares. He cares, and Merlin hates himself enough to fall right back into the hole that he’s barely managed to climb out of (if he ever did) and start falling for the git all over again.

The sorcerer hears a squeak and a flutter of wings and this his friends are landing on his tummy and curling around to sleep after poking at his face with their paws to make sure he’s alright. Merlin watches them through half-lidded, heavy eyes as he hears Arthur grumbling about ‘useless sorcerers’ and their ‘knack for being idiots and getting themselves killed.’ Arthur’s back is turned to him as the king rummages around his pack for a blanket, groaning as he pulls out a small square of cloth. The sorcerer lets out a small, quiet chuckle at Arthur’s exasperation - he had shrunk the dark brown blanket. It was only smart, after all; he had to save space somehow.

 _“Nihtslæp”_

The magic stops trickling. The dams have opened and it rushes into his veins, filling him as it continues to build inside him until his blood has been drenched and overtaken with magic. Merlin’s almost sure that if he were cut, he would bleed gold. The sorcerer hears a huff and Arthur is plopping down next to him, wrapping them both in his dark red cloak. Merlin’s eyes are heavy now, laden with the want of sleep, now thick with the desire and the knowledge that he _can_.

There’s a flush of gold and blue, and a rush of royal red. That’s all Merlin sees for awhile as he falls into the sweet black darkness of sleep, with gold just seeping in at the corners. He can only expect and wait for the time when the gold soaks through and his memories will arise once more. The black will fade away and the colours of his past will return to haunt him, to blind him for the moment and make him wish it lasts forever. Merlin hears a voice though, before he’s dragged into the deep. It’s not very loud, but complaining nonetheless. “Merlin, you idiot.” And if the sorcerer leans into the soft touch of fingers brushing hair from his eyes, well, he won’t remember it the next morning anyway.

But Arthur will.

  


_Red._

 _There was so much of it; it was suffocating, all encompassing. He didn’t know what to do. It was on his hands and covering his eyes. He could feel the slick, sticky touch of blood on his skin. He couldn’t breathe; it was getting into his skin, sinking through every single pore, flooding his mouth and nose. Merlin was choking, choking. Air did not exist. What air? Why would it matter anyway? There was no air there. Only blood. The blood on his hands - her blood, his blood, all of their blood, mixed into a cacophony of self-hate as well as that of the normal kind. Blood - pretty, violent, gruesome thing. It soon faded, as Merlin always knew it would, but always feared nonetheless that one day it wouldn’t. He feared that he’d be trapped in a word of eternal blood and bloodshed. A world where blood is not reused, a world that has no need for blood, but wants it on its hands anyway to decorate their skin and adorn its castle walls._

 _The red faded from the edges, leaving a smudge on a pair of otherwise pale lips. They were contorted, as if in a silent scream, as if their owner couldn’t taste the sweet air (what air?). Long dark hair framed the soft flesh, her mouth set on pale, smooth skin that flowed onto an arched neck, thin and frail. Oh how easy it would be to crush it between his fingertips, that gentle, gentle girl - but no. She grasped at her throat, fingernails long and sharp against smooth flesh. The sound filled in, rushing into his ears, loud and echoing. She gasped for air; that last breath of sweet life that was all too easy to take away - but it was too late. He was always too late, too wrong, too early, and too right; what would it take to just save a single life? Blue-green eyes were wide as the leather skin of water dropped to the floor, spilling everywhere, touching everything. Poison. Merlin expected it to be red at first, blood red, the very same kind that fills veins. He’s surprised almost, that the poison was so transparent, so completely and thoroughly invisible. It was scary, colorless and fast, creeping and crawling through the network veins of the body to strike at the heart - strike you dead._

 _The gasps were almost worse than the screams, but those hurt when they came anyway. Merlin’s body lurched and he could feel the goosebumps chasing the wind across his clammy skin._

 __“You poisoned her!” __

 _Merlin wanted to shout back:_

 __I didn’t want to!

I didn’t mean to!

You didn’t give me a choice!

I had to. __

 _The red began to fade away completely, the color leaving her lips. The water filled the room and he began to choke, floundering in the water, desperate to keep his head above the churning waves. The throne room doors slammed close, the floor cracked and burst open as weeds and vegetation burst through the marble. He saw a flash of silver and red, and his heart seized. No - Arthur. Merlin tried to swim towards him, he really did. He ignored the poison sinking into his skin and pouring into his mouth as he gasped for breath, fighting the current to reach him. It didn’t matter - nothing matters - he just needed to reach Arthur. The poison could take him for all he cared, just - Arthur._

“Merlin!”

He feels hands shake his shoulders roughly, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises. “Gods, Merlin. _Wake up!_ ” No, no, no. He doesn’t want to. Merlin failed. He couldn’t save Arthur. His prince sunk to the bottom of the lake, a puppet and a pawn to the Sidhe. Merlin deserves death, he deserves pain. He had tried so hard to save him, running so fast that his sides had hurt and his heart had felt like it would implode - or simply… give out. He feels liquid on his face and he bolts upright, sending the person next to him sprawling with an undignified ‘oof.’ His eyes fly open, his palms wiping the liquid from his face. He’s worried he’ll see red, but instead it’s clear. Clear. Poison.

“No. No. I should have saved him. I couldn’t - I can’t…”

The poison is leaking out of his eyes now, fast and wet. Will his skin burn off now? Will he go blind? Is this the price he has to pay for failing to save Arthur? The poison blurs everything. A fire glows close to him, its oranges and reds nothing but moving shades of colour.

“Merlin! You have to calm down! I don’t… What do you need? What can I do?” There’s a body next to him, warm and comforting, but his sleep-hazed mind doesn’t understand. Gwaine? But no, he had left Camelot. Hadn’t he? Merlin shakes his head in an attempt to clear his mind. He feels slow and lethargic under all the red and Morgana’s screams, his new memories buried under all the old.

Merlin calms himself and forces himself to trace his steps. But he can’t, he can’t. There’s so much blood and screaming, so much death, and he let Arthur die. How could he let him die? Merlin deserves to die now. Merlin failed. He’s failed again, he’s failed the fates and ruined their destiny. Everything he’s done, all the people he’s killed and let die - for Arthur - for nothing. What else does he have to live for now? Merlin feels hands on his face, fingers wiping the poison away. He wants to scream, to yell for the other to get to water, to wash the poison away. The poison killed Arthur, he wants to say, and the poison will kill you. Merlin can almost hear the other’s voice in his head.

 _Then why didn’t it kill you?_

The answer comes to Merlin in a flurry of sudden flames. The poison is gone, wiped away. He can see bright warm flares, dark sky, and beautiful blue eyes like diamonds on black velvet.

“The poison is me.”

Arthur’s face is close to his, eyes still laden with sleep, but still as beautiful as ever. His eyebrows are downturned and worried, his lips pressed together in a single vehement line. Merlin blinks, unable to believe his eyes.

“Arthur?” He asks, before immediately looking at his prince’s hands, wet with poison - no, tears - but completely unharmed. Merlin lets out a silent sob of relief that is devoid of any sound as his arms wind over Arthur to clench him tighter. “You’re alive. You’re alive.” The king lets out a very undignified grunt but lets Merlin hold him close anyway, his hands hesitating before they begin to rub gentle circles into his back.

Merlin luxuriates in the sound of Arthur’s heart beating in his chest, a strong, loud sound. He can’t imagine the dying sound. He would never let it fade, not if he could help it. Arthur shushes him and Merlin feels the warmth pool in his gut as the blond tucks Merlin’s head under his chin, fingers warm and comforting on his back. The king is so warm, his arms fitting around him just like they had all those years ago.

It’s not much different being comforted and being the one offering the warmth and safety. It’s like an entire world is formed, one where no blood can taint your hands or poison your throat. It’s a world where Merlin can live simply for the sound of Arthur’s next heart beat and nothing else. Reality crashes on them soon enough, like pieces of the sky in their own little world falling onto their heads without a merciful moment for them to gather their senses. Merlin freezes, pulling himself back quickly. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , let Arthur close again. It isn’t his place.

There are gentle fingers falling from his back and a sudden awareness that gods, they’re so close. Arthur’s breath is warm and hot against Merlin’s lips as he breathes through his parted mouth. This… this _whatever_ they had, isn’t what their destiny is. The way Merlin felt, the way he _feels_ when those eyes catch his from across the room, the pounding of his heart and the shiver that runs through his body when those fingers touch his skin - it’s not supposed to be. Kilgharrah did not speak of this, he told Merlin of their destinies, of the great king Arthur will be, and the legend they will both become. But never did anyone say anything about these feelings in their destiny. When had everything gone so wrong?

Merlin moves backward, his arms wrapping around his knees, tucking them up against his chest. The wind’s still cold and the sky still dark. Merlin wonders how long he’s been asleep.

When Arthur speaks, it’s worried and unsure, his voice hesitant and halting. “Merlin, I… do you need help? We could get the apothecaries and the healers to try… I tried to wake you up, but it didn’t work. You just kept screaming and crying, I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do.” _I didn’t know how to save you._ Merlin looks up at Arthur, bells ringing clearly in his mind as he’s pulled back into another memory, uncalled and unbidden by his magic this time. He was asleep for most of it, in a sick and feverish sleep not unlike that of the sleep he’s had these past nights. Gaius had told him later about how Arthur had disobeyed his father and left Camelot for the antidote that would save him. Granted Merlin had drunk the poison to save Arthur’s life first, but frankly he’ll take affection wherever he can get it.

Maybe, just maybe, Merlin realizes, he and Arthur aren’t that different after all. Merlin saves Arthur so Arthur can save them all. Merlin loves Arthur so Arthur will have the support he deserves behind everything he does. Arthur will never have to fear loneliness and standing alone ever again. Uther’s ghost will haunt them no longer. He is no longer the executioner or his words the axe; no one else will die from the monster created from the old king’s lies. The castle walls bleed lies, blood and poison.

Merlin shakes his head, his teeth biting hard into his bottom lip. “No. I… It’s just a bad dream is all,” Merlin says, eyes staring fixatedly at the fire, at the bright red glow of the wood before it crumbles into grey, dead ash. Arthur raises his eyebrows, his mouth parting to argue and interrogate him further. Merlin feels a flash of annoyance at the man, but the sorcerer does his best to smother it. He continues, trying to sidetrack the king from his previous thoughts. Merlin really doesn’t need Arthur mucking about and finding out just how badly he’s been doing - _feeling_. It’s pathetic, really. “What are you doing here, anyway?” Merlin asks, genuinely curious as his eyebrows furrow in confusion. The Mercian delegation would be arriving at court in two days at the most and it would be the usual cold war. A cold war made up of blatant displays of Albion’s wealth and fortune and flamboyant shows of its military prowess with tournaments and jousts. Arthur didn’t usually take to missing such opportunities to show off knights that _he_ had personally trained ever since he was a prince, like shiny new toys to new friends.

Arthur coughs and shifts uncomfortably. “You mucked up your last quest grandly _and_ got wounded, so I figured you needed my assistance. Can’t have you going and getting yourself killed can we, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur sneers at him, his bright blue eyes twinkling. His lips pull back to reveal sharp, white teeth. Merlin rolls his eyes. Honestly. But he raises his eyebrows at the king, his lips twitching uncontrollably. Arthur always had the weirdest ways of reciprocating friendship and showing affection. It’s hardly his fault; he was practically raised by a rowdy group of knights with too much time for fighting and swordplay and too little for toys and affection. ‘Girly’ things, Arthur calls them.

Merlin smiles slightly. “Thank you, sire.”

Arthur nods and shifts, pulling his cloak away from Merlin with a grumble to cover his own body. “It’s late, go back to sleep. The druids are still a couple days ride away, you need your rest.” He pauses. “Now that you’re awake, get your own damn blanket.” Arthur turns on his side, his hands clenched around his cloak as he closes his eyes, awaiting sleep. Merlin smiles to himself, before standing up and turning his blanket back to its normal size. When he lays back down Merlin is more than aware that he won’t be able to sleep. He’s unsure of how to go on, however. Now that Arthur has invited himself on his quest how will he meet Morgana and Morgause? Merlin has the urge to hit himself upside the head with a log, but he settles with whacking himself over and over with the flat of his palm. He should have put up a fight when Arthur had arrived instead of smiling and welcoming him like the lovesick dope he is. Merlin groans out loud; he really is an idiot. There’s a mumbled ‘shut up, Merlin,’ and the sorcerer can’t help the sappy smile that spreads instantly over his face. Merlin catches himself and winces, groaning. He’s doomed.

“Go to _sleep_ , _Mer_ lin!”

  


By the next morning, Merlin still hasn’t stumbled upon an answer to his problems. But if he’s honest, when has he really? It’s never been that bloody easy. He could lead Arthur away from the druid’s camp where Morgana, Morgause, and Mordred dwell, and bring him back to Camelot instead. Or maybe he could simply erase his memories and order him back to Camelot. Merlin sighs, covering his face with his hands. Merlin really, _really_ hates lying to Arthur. There’s a loud groan and the sounds of bones clicking together that never ceases to make Merlin wince, and Arthur stands. He mumbles a good morning and heads into the foliage to relieve himself. Merlin sits up quickly, conjuring a mirror out of the small stream. A pale, flat, luminous pebble the size of his palm shimmers and turns reflective, the color of melted silver. The sorcerer stares into the mirror and into his reflection, wincing at the dark bags under his eyes and his hollow sunken cheeks. Merlin steels himself, calling his magic forward as he stretches his hand toward the mirror and casts the spell he knows will hide his every woe.

 _Ábeþecian._

Merlin’s eyes glow gold and in his very hands he watches the color return to his skin, rosy and healthy. The sorcerer watches the dark bruises beneath his eyes wash away and disappear, his hollow cheeks filling out with the illusion of thriving health. There’s a snap behind him, the tell tale sound of a breaking twig, of someone nearing the campsite. Merlin whirls around as Arthur stumbles out from behind a bush, his eyebrows furrowed and confused, his lips pressed into a tight angry line. The king gives him a pointed look, his arms folded across his chest. “What did you just… What did you do?” The blond says, waving his hand vaguely in the air in what Merlin takes to mean ‘magic.’ The sorcerer doesn’t say anything, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he keeps his face a bare mask as he does so often does these days.

“Nothing, I…”

When Merlin lies, he feels his magic fizz around his mouth, the sensation is odd - a sort of light… burning beneath his tongue. He pauses, his tongue licking at the bottom and sides of his mouth, but he finds nothing. Odd. Merlin continues, seeing the disbelieving and suspicious look Arthur is giving him. “I just got cut by a branch riding yesterday, that’s all.”

Arthur narrows his eyes and (for the love of all that’s good) begins to tap his foot on the forest floor impatiently. “I didn’t see a cut.” The king pauses, pursing his lips, probably trying to stare the sorcerer into submission. “You can’t hide anything from _me_ , Merlin. Now, go on, spit it out.”

The sorcerer didn’t react too fondly. Merlin might have yelled at the great git, calling him all sorts of pretty words that Geoffrey would have winced at and making his mother guarantee that he’d never make it into the stars. But still, a million curses, two plates of burnt breakfast, and a soaking wet king later, Merlin and Arthur are saddled on their horses and on their way to adventure and destiny. Gods help them all.

The ride goes as normally as a day with Merlin and Arthur can go. “Is your little bottom sore?”

“Yes. It’s not as fat as yours.”

They stop in a village at noon, when the sun is high is the sky and Merlin looks like he’s about to fall off Iggy and pass out (like a _girl_ ). The tavern - the Sun & Moon tavern, at that - is a cool respite from the blazing heat. The chairs are extremely uncomfortable, the food is room temperature and bland at best, and the ale leaves an extremely sour after taste that makes Merlin cringe and spew it out while Arthur declares that he’s ‘certainly had better.’ Then they’re off again, after an exchange of words and titles with the village’s bullies, ( _“Do you know who I am?”_ ) and a sloppy wet kiss planted on Merlin by the tavern owner, Jeanette, that makes Arthur snicker and elbow him in the side. The jokes don’t stop till early evening, but even then Arthur is still telling Merlin that he will gladly pay for his wedding to Jeanette.

Arthur chortles, almost falling off Hengroen, barely catching himself as he clutches at the reigns. Merlin almost stops breathing in worry when he sees Arthur’s body go lurching backwards - this is the umpteenth this has happened and Merlin is already not in the best of moods. Arthur is wearing his patience down to the wire, not to mention he _still_ has no bloody idea to do with the git.

“Really though, Merlin. Congratulations. It must be hard to find women so completely willing. I mean, well, I haven’t seen you around with many much. Tough luck, yeah?” Merlin just sighs and rolls his eyes because there really is no talking to Arthur when he gets like this. He says nothing, but it’s not like Arthur needs the ammunition anyway; he just keeps going on and spouting nonsense that really makes Merlin want to do nothing more than spell his mouth shut. Or turn him into a donkey again; he really doesn’t mind which. Different methods, same brilliant outcome. “Your children are going to look _ridiculous!_ The - the ears! Oh, Merlin, what have you gotten yourself into?”

Merlin really doesn’t have the patience he used to. His eye twitches and his fingers spasm with the extreme desire to just push the giant arse off his horse. And if he falls into a giant pile of dung, even better.

“Maybe it’s because I’m not interested in _them_ , Arthur! Have you thought of that, you gigantic prat? You go on and on about the way I look, and that’s all fine and dandy, but actually I do get _plenty_ offers and propositions, thank you very much! _You ginormous pillock!_ ” Merlin snaps, Seb squeaking in his pocket and Archie opening a single lazy eye to see what the fuss is all about. The sun is setting and the sky is tinged a light violet, as Merlin dismounts Iggy and leads her off the path into the forest where he randomly sets up camp, throwing Arthur’s pack onto the ground and glowering at it for a second before letting Iggy drink from her water skin. When Arthur reemerges from the green his face is guarded and cautious, but Merlin just really does not give a damn. The king acts as though no other person’s feelings matter, only his. Arthur stares at his dirty pack on the ground and mumbles to himself quietly as he bends to pick it up while looking at Merlin out of the corner of his eye, but the sorcerer studiously ignores the prat. The silence doesn’t last long though; Arthur hates the quiet. It reminds him of altogether too many dinners and meetings with his father. Merlin feels a flash of guilt at the thought but steels himself anyway because Arthur really doesn’t deserve to be forgiven that easily. Of course, Arthur doesn’t know he’s already been forgiven, at least subconsciously. Merlin is a romantic sap that way.

“I- Merlin. I’m- I’m so-” Arthur pauses, unsure of himself. The king never knows how to speak to people he cares about. “What do you mean… not interested?” His voice is hesitatingly curious, baby blue eyes narrowed cautiously. Merlin takes a deep breath of the cool evening air, his eyes dart down to watch Seb and Archie chasing each other on Iggy’s back. Merlin curses his big mouth, he really needs to stop letting his annoyance and irritation rule him. The problem is Arthur always manages to crawl beneath his skin and render him completely vulnerable and useless. Those moments - those short, fleeting moments - when Arthur touches his arm, says something to him without a hidden insult, when he praises him, or confides in Merlin by telling him something he’s never told anyone before, are enough for him to tear down all of Merlin’s barriers. The sorcerer turns to Arthur, sighing, his dark blue eyes downcast. He runs a hand over his face as he stares at his king, as weary and tired as he’s ever felt.

Merlin lets out the breath he doesn’t even realize he’s holding.

“I just mean I’m not interested in… giving up my position, and starting a family.” The burning beneath his tongue returns again, but Merlin just ignores it, blue eyes fixed on the emotions flickering so freely on Arthur’s face. The sorcerer keeps his mask on; a blank stonewall that is opaque and strong, it’s come to be his default expression these days.

Arthur takes a step forward, two, and then three - he’s not far from Merlin now. His hand is outstretched and his lips are pursed as he makes soft, soothing sounds under his breath. Merlin’s almost offended, he’s not some wild animal that needs taming. Arthur doesn’t need to treat him like he’s made of glass, like he’s _fragile_. The sorcerer’s breath hisses through his gritted teeth and Arthur freezes before laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. The king is resting on the balls of his feet and the stance is one that Merlin knows well, one he’s seen a million times. Arthur’s slightly crouched with his knees bent, his hand is on Merlin’s shoulder giving light, casual contact that if need be could be quickly taken away as Arthur backs off.

He’s treating Merlin like he’s something dangerous, something to be feared. Arthur’s cautious and guarded, vigilant in case of an attack. The thought strikes a cord inside Merlin and he turns to Arthur’s face, sad and oh so guilty. “Your position wouldn’t be compromised if you did start a family, Merlin. I- I would have to approve of her first, of course, but…” Arthur’s face crumples slightly. “If- if I somehow misled you into thinking that you wouldn’t be allowed to… court someone, Merlin, I apologize. It- it wasn’t my intention.” Merlin’s eyes are wide; he hadn’t expected anything like this at all. He had anticipated a curious Arthur sure, an annoyed Arthur even, but certainly not a guilty Arthur. Merlin is surprised when he feels warm threads of affection weave through all the other emotions that have begun to pierce through his wall and make themselves known. The sorcerer has almost forgotten that they were even there in the first place. Almost. Merlin jolts as his reverie is shattered by Arthur’s gentle but slightly annoyed, “Merlin?” and he looks up in surprise, straight into those gorgeous blues.

He feels his teeth scrape against his lip, and his hazy mind snaps back to reality, his glazed eyes sharpening. He wants to tell Arthur that it’s certainly not his fault, even though the blond is too masochistic for his own good. He stammers at first, unsure of what Arthur is going to do or say next; the king is just full of surprises today. Arthur cuts Merlin off as he speaks, well as he tries to at least; Arthur has an incredible knack for doing that at the worst times. Not too surprising then, Merlin notes, glad that at least some things are the same. Arthur huffs his annoyance, hands on his hips, breaking the contact between them. “I am _trying_ to have a moment with you here, _Mer_ lin. This is where you realize I am a brilliant king who cares for his subjects _and_ their happiness. And that includes you, Merlin, god knows why.” Arthur’s eyebrow is raised, his lips twitch upward as he teases his sorcerer - he’s missed this. Arthur misses Merlin, and the worst bit is that he’s standing right there. The king’s forehead creases minutely. Why does he feel so far away?

Merlin wants to let out a bark of laughter and tell Arthur that he’s a condescending prat who doesn’t care for anyone other than himself. Merlin looks up and meets Arthur’s eyes instead. Those eyes say so much, so much that Merlin cannot physically say anymore. Those words won’t fall past his lips as easily as they used to. Those words he’s never really ever had the chance to say. As much as they try to deny it, or revert it, something has changed between them - many things have, but this, this is different. Eyes can say so much. Eyes can reveal a person’s true feelings and intentions, pull the rug from right out under their feet and expose them.

Merlin has never really liked his eyes and their habit of flashing gold whenever he let a single wisp of magic free. Hunith had to keep him indoors and isolated as a child, away from other children who would spread their lies and stories like wildfire. Merlin was born with bright golden eyes.

“I always knew you were going to be a great king, Arthur. You were the only one that needed the convincing.” Merlin doesn’t know what prompted him to speak as such, but he means every single word. It is then that it hits him what to do. Arthur mustn’t make it to the druid’s camp with him; it would ruin everything. What is the point in giving his life to save the king’s if the king gallivants in trying to save the day and gets himself killed anyway? Merlin will tell him that Camelot’s barriers are being breached and that the queen is at risk. He feels a pang of shame shoot through him, but that unspeakable feeling he gets when he’s near Arthur quickly swallows it. Merlin grimaces at the thought of Arthur hurting because of the decision he would have to make - that he had already made - between Guinevere and Merlin.

“You- Merlin. You’ve never told me that before.” Arthur’s eyes are wide, butterfly breaths flitting through his parted lips.

Merlin eyes him warily before shrugging Arthur’s statement off nonchalantly. “I have, Arthur. I always have. You just never listened.” Merlin feels his face heat at the double meaning, but he tries to ignore it. Arthur rarely sees behind what is already there in front of his eyes.

The king pauses, his sharp white teeth worrying at his pink lips. It’s a minute or two before he answers, cautious and almost wary, “Thank you.”

But then, of course, the prat has to ruin the moment.

“Well some of us have to be brilliant, don’t we, _Mer_ lin? Have to make up for your extreme idiocy somehow.” Merlin raises his eyebrows, but Arthur continues, his lips uncurling from their teasing sneer and his voice dropping a couple octaves, becoming softer, curious.

“Merlin…” Arthur begins, clearing his throat. “When you said you weren’t interested, was it because they’re… you know, women?” His cheeks are slightly flushed even with the cool evening wind sweeping across his skin. Merlin watches Arthur a moment before he lets his eyes fall and his teeth tug on his bottom lip as he begins to set up camp. The king helps him but continues to shoot him looks full of curiosity and something else that the sorcerer cannot name. Merlin shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts; Arthur always manages to confuse him with every complicated sentence and simple look that could be translated a million different ways. They work in silence, gears trudging along slowly in their mind as they think through the absence of conversation. Merlin and Arthur sit below the giant oak tree, its leaves wide and providing shelter from the elements. When the sorcerer does begin to answer he’s unsure of what Arthur will say, if he says anything at all. The fire is crackling softly, the shadows long but light as Merlin gazes upwards into the sky.

“Yeah,” Merlin breathes. “Yeah.”

He keeps his gaze on the canopy of leaves above them but watches Arthur out of the corner of his eye. The king could be quite oblivious sometimes. Arthur tilts his head sideways, as if confused, and his eyebrows furrow as he impatiently swipes his hair from his eyes.

“I used to wonder,” Arthur blurts out. “You never courted any women before, I mean, I hadn’t noticed any. So I… I wondered.” Arthur takes a deep breath, his cheeks flushing. “It didn’t seem appropriate to ask. So… So I didn't.” Arthur pauses, gnawing on his lips. “But… you wanted to be more than just friends with - with _her_ didn’t you?” It’s pretty obvious who ‘her’ is, since there are really only a couple people Arthur seems unable to mention, one being Morgana. Merlin really doesn’t understand why the prat thinks he was- well, yes, maybe he was. Just a little bit. She is extremely beautiful, after all. The sorcerer doesn’t really know when the novelty of women as a whole began to wear off, he only knows that the attraction he felt for them began to pale. The soft gentle skin of a woman’s hands could never replace the rough, battle-wrought ones of Arthur. The sight of his muscles, hot and slick with sweat after training, and even his feet gave Merlin shivers. Arthur’s ability to move with speed and agility, even under the weight of his armor and sword, his feet light and barely touching the ground nearly makes Merlin sigh. Arthur really does manage to turn his world upside down even without a single word; a glance, a breath, a bat of an eye would do.

Merlin passes Arthur a chunk of bread, smoked meat, and cheese. He tears his own half into two to feed Seb as Archie look on, bored yet amused by the antics of his silly boys. Arthur thanks him, eyes wide and keened on Merlin’s companions. His lips part to question the sorcerer undoubtedly, but Merlin beats him to the punch, sidetracking him with answers to his questions. Arthur would think he and the queen were still friends. They had tried, certainly, but things had changed. Arthur fell for Gwen and Gwen fell for Lancelot, who had heroic notions and left his lady to the devices of king. And all the while Merlin is left alone. Well, somewhat alone, he has Seb and Archie. And Gwaine, a voice piped up from the back of his head, and he has to concede. _Yes, Gwaine._

“We were good friends,” Merlin agrees, trying to sidestep Arthur’s question the best he can. Many things have changed, yes, but Arthur’s sensitivity when it comes to the people close to him remains the same. It was hard enough to convince Arthur that they were friends in the first place all those years ago. If Arthur still believes their friendship is pure and untainted on Merlin’s part by those feelings that friends shouldn’t have and the resentment that came with them, well then Merlin certainly doesn’t want to be the one to tell him different. “I _mean_ Arthur, that I don’t _like_ women, not anymore and not like I used to.” He says, eyeing Arthur wearily. Merlin wonders exactly just how much he will have to break it down for the king. Arthur frowns, confused, before his eyes widen and he freezes. Merlin almost rolls his eyes - almost.

“You- _oh._ ” The oh so dignified and composed king of Albion splutters, his face turning an unattractive blotchy red and his mouth falling open and closed like a fish out of water.

Merlin is terribly tempted to laugh, but he simply nods and keeps his face passive. He doesn’t want to scare Arthur more than he already has.

“Yes, Arthur. That means I like men.” And with that admission, Merlin can’t completely contain the predatory, however not unkind, smile that spreads across his face as he leans against the tree trunk with a self-satisfied nod. Arthur’s eyes are wide, so much so that Merlin is almost worried they’ll fall out of his head. They sit in silence for the rest of the night, Arthur eyes always managing to land on Merlin. The king’s eyes stray and the sorcerer notices, but he does nothing. He feels Arthur’s eyes on his hands as he pulls the blankets from their packs; the king’s curious, cautious eyes are on his own as they glow gold when he starts the fire (and if they flare brighter than usual, well, Merlin isn’t really to blame, is he?). When he feels Arthur’s eyes on his lips he really can’t help his curious tongue from peeking out between parted lips to lick at the corner of his mouth.

He hears Arthur’s breath hitch and the sudden urge to turn around and press hot kisses to his king’s neck and jaw overcomes him in such a fierce blur that he accidentally turns around so quickly they lock eyes. It feels like they’re locked together, in place, exactly where they’re supposed to be. They’re like bolts in a door, sliding slowly but surely into place. Eyes fall to lips, to the sweat on the other’s brow and top lip where tongues could dip low and lick so easily. They fall to neck, breath, and skin. Gods, all that warm flushed skin with goose bumps left in the wake of cool wind and blue eyes. It seems like several moments before either of them is able to move again. The two men don’t even pretend to separate from the other casually, they simply flee to opposite sides of the clearing. Their chests fall up and down in a rapid precession as breaths of the cool night air escape and hide in their bodies through pale parted lips.

“I’ve got to - uh - firewood,” Arthur says, as eloquent as ever, as he darts off into the foliage. Merlin watches him go with longing pooling in the pit of his stomach. The sorcerer wants to follow his king, to placate him, to tell him that they’re just good friends, that _of course_ Merlin doesn’t like him in that way. But he can only sit down heavily on the ground, a good distance away from the fire, the breath knocked out of him so hard he really isn’t sure what to do next. He can only sit there and gasp for breath in the cold night air, Seb in his palm and Archie on his shoulder as he just lies down and casts his spell with trembling fingers. Merlin won’t be the first to return to camp, that he’s going to make sure of. He has his pride too, and sometimes it gets the better of him. Merlin closes his eyes.

When Merlin wakes, he’s sweating and he’s surprised to find that he didn’t wake in the night, apart for a single moment where he remembers... He bolts upright, sharp gaze casting around for signs of danger. Arthur is laying a way’s off, his back to Merlin, and the sorcerer feels a pang of regret at his confession the day before. Merlin’s memories the night before were not bad at all, simply wisps of smoke after a forest fire that he is unable to catch, after it’s been extinguished. A forest fire that he had helped put aflame; a fire, he thinks, that he helped to set alight. He’s disoriented at first, his vision spinning from getting up so fast. Merlin rises completely, his back hits the bark of the tree behind him and he lets out a surprised yelp. He immediately bites down hard on his lip though, wincing as he turns to look at Arthur slowly, fearing his king has awoken. But the blond hasn’t budged, and Merlin lets out an almost silent sigh of relief.

He feels his cheeks warm as he spots Seb and Archie lying by his side, obviously wrapped carefully in a blanket. It’s Arthur’s blanket, he realizes upon closer inspection, and his insides warm. He gazes up at the tree’s branches, shreds of light grey sky peeking out behind bright green. It’s then that Merlin’s eyes widen at the thought, at the memory of lying down on the other side of the clearing, at his stubbornness against being the first back to the fire. Merlin resisted last night, against being the first to return and wait for the other, against being the first one to give in and beg for forgiveness. He feels a spike of vicious joy then that it had been Arthur that returned first. Merlin squashes the disgusting feeling quickly, his cheeks flushing with - well, it must have been! Who else could have? Arthur must have carried him back to the fire, and piled all these blankets on him.

Merlin glances down at Archie and Seb; his cheeks heat even more, his heart picking up its rapid thump-thump-thump. The sorcerer stills for a second then before he lets out a raw joyous garble of _something_. Merlin isn’t sure if it’s even English, but he doesn't care. He can’t contain the happiness that is building hard and fast inside his chest, and gods, he feels like he’s going to burst. Merlin buries his blushing face in his arms, his legs thrashing about, accidentally kicking the bundle of his pets lightly. Archie really isn’t too pleased about that, but his smile is enormous and his heart is soaring and Arthur is right _there_. Then it strikes him, the raw, hot fear that a single prolonged touch of skin-to-skin contact could have killed Arthur. The sorcerer has to take in slow and deep breaths then, to assure himself that he had taken all the necessary precautions so that the glamour would have been a second skin - that no, Arthur can’t be dead. Merlin stands up and begins to cast his glamour hastily then, replenishing the one from the day before that had begun to grow weak, when he hears a voice.

“What in the devil are you doing, Merlin?” Arthur’s voice is incredulous and his eyes are wide as he sits up, his hair still in disarray from sleep. Merlin freezes.

It begins to slip, lips uncurling from their previously happy bearing. When his lips fall back down, they’re left nervously torn and bitten bright red. “I-It’s n-” The sorcerer chokes, feeling a twist in his throat, golden and constricting. His magic is tight and strong around his windpipe as he tries to lie. Merlin struggles for breath, falling down to his knees, his hands closing and opening around his neck as he hears his breathing stutter and gasp; that quiet sound not unlike that of Morgana when she drank the poison those years ago. The burning under his tongue and in his mouth is unbearable, hot and scalding, and the taste of copper is prominent on his tongue. He feels searing pain as his teeth catche deep on the bright pink muscle. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, stuttering and slowing, all too ready to give out altogether. The sorcerer can feel arms around him, shaking his body violently, tugging him to them. Distantly he’s sure he can hear someone calling his name. He can’t see; only blurs of color once again as tears well in the corner of his eyes and slide down the sides of his face.

 _Poison_ is his only thought, and all he wants is for Arthur - wherever he is - to run far away from him. Arthur just needs to _get away_ because Merlin isn’t safe. Merlin isn’t safe; Merlin is Arthur’s poison. They had made sure of it.

When Merlin had awoken after Morgana captured him, his arms and legs ached and every breath felt like he was drinking fire. He shouldn’t have been surprised when Mordred and Morgause had come out of the darkness behind her, their faces shrouded with shadows. But god help him, the shadows had barely concealed the streaks of glee behind them. When they began to speak of alliances and how he should join them and fight for their kind everywhere, Merlin began to fight back. The images they painted with their poisonous words still haunt him to this very day, of what they would be able to do to Arthur with his help: to cut him up, beat him bloody, to press hot irons on bare flesh as they squeeze his throat and force him to suffocate while they make him watch his precious Camelot and its people burn. They would do it, they had said, until each and every man, woman, and child were dead. Of course he had politely declined, his magic lashing out at the very thought of Arthur’s demise.

It had taken three of them to throw him back under the veil of consciousness again, and when he had awaked he found numerous immobility spells on him. They had offered him another chance to rule with them of course, as all the villains tend to do (though the sorcerer could never understand why). They spoke of eternal power and eternal youth, and then the evil sisters parted and Mordred came forward. Mordred’s hair was as dark as midnight, his eyes were bright blue-green, and Merlin is sure he saw red creeping into the edges of the cool colours. The young man had smiled then, his skin pale and smooth, his teeth pointed, his lips plush and red. Mordred had walked forward and laced their fingers together, his other hand leaning up to wipe at Merlin’s brow, at his dark hair. Then the sisters promised him eternal love.

He had flung Mordred’s hand away and the boy had immediately dropped the façade. His smile faded and his wide eyes narrowed. When he leaned close and hissed in Merlin’s ear, his voice was deceptively soft. “We will rule together one day, Emrys. I saw it the night you almost failed to rescue me. The night you almost let me _die_ , Emrys.” Morgause’s blonde hair fell down her side in gorgeous perfect ringlets, it mirrored Morgana’s, identical in all but its color. Morgause sneered, leaning close to watch Merlin’s breathing hitch and his mouth widen in protest. That night must have been the worst mistake he’s ever made. If he could do it over again, he would…he doesn’t know what he would do. But he wouldn’t let that happen. Not that. Arthur doesn’t deserve to die because of Merlin’s mistakes.

“Never,” he managed to choke out, his voice a gurgle, drowned with blood as he feels the inside of his throat tear into shreds with a flash of Morgause’s eyes. She let out a laugh. They both did; and all the while Mordred remained silent, his face passive.

“You should know better by now than to try to escape your destiny, Merlin,” Morgana said, her lips as bright a blood red as ever. Merlin could barely stand to look at her. Her eyes were dead, dark, full of anger and malice. _Hatred._ Morgana died a long time ago; Merlin cannot help but think that he’s responsible.

“Do not despair, Mordred. You shall recapture his heart yet. Merlin has simply already fallen in love with the wrong person, haven’t you Merlin? Surely you realize that it can never be?” Her eyebrows were raised high in amusement, her eyes twinkled like a cat with its prey captured tight in its claws. Morgana frowned, tilting her head in confusion, her lips pursed. Morgause let out a surprised laugh. “Sister, surely you’ve noticed our little court magician only has eyes for his king.” And it was true. It is, though Merlin tried to convince them otherwise. Morgana simply watched him through veiled eyes, and Merlin could not help the flash of hope that seared through him. Surely somewhere deep inside of her she still felt whatever love she had for Arthur when they were children. Surely all could not be lost.

Mordred had let out an angry hiss, lurching towards Merlin with his sharp teeth gritted together. An arm held him back - Morgana’s. Her face was passive, a mask of cruelty and spite. “Not yet, Mordred. We still have need of him.” Mordred let out an animal like snarl.

“I’ll take care of his eyes for him,” Mordred said, the words dripping off his lips like poison. Merlin frantically tried to move but the spells held him tightly. The invisible binds seemed to burn his skin and he remained immobile. Mordred glared at him and Merlin felt the back of his eyes begin to prick and burn. He felt something slide down his cheeks, as his vision blurred red. Mordred leaned closer, soft fingers dipping into the liquid on Merlin’s cheek. He pulls them away, bright crimson on his pale fingers. “Then he’ll have eyes for no one.” Mordred pauses, licking the bright scarlet droplets of blood. “No one but me.”

They did everything to him that they had wanted to do to Arthur. Merlin wanted to hate Arthur for all of the pain, but he didn’t. He wanted to hate Arthur for making him save Mordred, for being so damn noble all the time, but he didn’t. Merlin did hate Arthur for making him love him though, even through every cut in his flesh and every burn. Merlin hates Arthur for making him want to smile through every torturous second, because he knows it’s him that’s about to die - and not Arthur. Arthur will be alright, and that’s all Merlin’s cared about for a long time.

They had left him alone after that, long after his screams pierced the room and his blood touched the ground. Merlin was delirious for most of it, and if they hadn’t known of his inability to sleep without magic before, they certainly did then. His magic became erratic and uncontrollable from his lack of sleep, his body began to wither and soon his mind began to follow. When Morgana had returned, without her minions this time, Merlin was already lost in the recesses of his own mind. He tried to escape the world and his captors, he wanted to leave the pain and the heartache, the physical torture. Merlin fell back into memory, memories of Ealdor, with a woman he would grow to envy and another he would begin to hate. But most important of all, with a man he would love until the stars stopped singing. Merlin believed they never would. Morgana slipped in quietly, a fatal smile on deadly lips.

“You will kill him,” she hissed, her nails digging blood red lines into his skin. Her eyes glowed dark gold with every word she spit at Merlin, with every line of crimson that rose to the surface with a rake of sharp nails. “A single lingering touch of skin on skin, even a simple little kiss, Merlin, will kill your precious king. A kiss that you’ve wanted for years.” She leaned closer, and Merlin could see the lines of age on her face that weren’t there before, all that time ago in Ealdor. “You’re his very own personal brand of poison, Merlin. Wouldn’t your wee little king be proud?” Merlin guessed evil wasn’t as eternal as they had promised.

Magic is cruel, this he knows, though Morgana hasn’t learned it yet. It digs so deep inside you it unearths every hidden desire that you didn’t even know you had, and it tries to give you everything you wanted. Magic tried to give it all to Merlin; a lover back from the dead, a life in place of another, and a chance to finally know his father. Each and every one had gone terribly wrong. He had simply awoken one day and there they were, sitting by his bedside, their skin pale and their lips blue. Merlin sent them back each time, afraid to awake to more people who haunted his dreams, until one day he just couldn’t fall asleep anymore. “Let’s hope you get that kiss, Merlin. You’ll be saving us a lot of trouble.” And then she was gone, and Merlin was left wondering why she couldn’t even bring herself to say her target’s name.

Arthur.

*

“Merlin! Merlin, you have to wake up.” There’s more shaking, and Merlin realizes that he really is feeling very sick. “Wake up, you idiot. You can’t leave me, not yet.” Merlin takes very grave offense to that, and frankly, that prat’s lucky he managed to cast the glamour when he did or Arthur would be dead meat by now. And no, Merlin is really very comfortable. He thinks that he’ll stay this way for a little while longer. “I-it isn’t our destiny, isn’t that what you said? We haven’t done the things we’re supposed to do.” There is an indiscernible raw, ragged sound. Merlin thinks it might have been a sob, and his eyes fly open. The arms loosen around his shoulders, and there’s a soft sound of surprise. “Merlin?”

The sorcerer turns to Arthur, at those red-rimmed eyes, those cheeks lined with tear tracks that Merlin really doesn’t deserve. He feels tears on his own face and foam around his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his hand before the fear begins to hit. “You…you didn’t touch me, did you?”

Arthur’s eyes widen, confused, and his cheeks flush for really no reason that Merlin can see. “No- I- What’s going on, Merlin? You- you’re _scaring_ me!” Merlin almost feels guilty, but he has to make sure. He has to make sure he hasn’t killed Arthur.

“Did you touch my… tears or- or my saliva, Arthur?” The sorcerer says, his patience waning. He doesn’t know what he can do if Arthur is poisoned. What could the antidote possibly be? Was there even one?

“Wha- no, I wiped it off with…” Arthur opens a single gloved hand, a crumpled white token - Guinevere’s. Merlin lets out a growl, and snatches it out of Arthur’s hand. He tosses it to the ground, and his eyes are enveloped in gold, as the token is engulfed in fire. The king is too confused to be angry, too worried by the shaking dark haired man in front of him, too blinded by that forbidden feeling to see that everything is about to change. Everything. “What are you doing, Merlin?” The king asks, his voice soft, weary. “Whatever it is, I can help. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” Arthur moves closer to Merlin’s back, shuddering slightly from those quiet sobs. “Let me help you. It’ll be like it used to. Merlin and Prince Arthur, saviors of Camelot, off to defend Albion again.” Arthur reaches out to lay a hand on Merlin back, but at the slightest and briefest of touches, Merlin jerks away with eyes wide and wild.

“No.”

Arthur pulls back, confused, his eyes wide and hurt. “Wha- Merlin. What is going on? You- You’re so _different_.” Arthur’s fingers are clenched tightly, his hands balled up into fists. Merlin almost wishes his king would just hit him. Maybe then, the guilt will ease. The guilt that came with the never waning feeling of wanting Arthur’s hands on him with neither cloth nor clothing separating them. Merlin wants Arthur’s fingers on his skin, his hot breath on his cheek and neck, the pounding of the blond’s heart a hair’s breadth away from his own. Merlin just wants Arthur _close_. But he can’t be, not with Morgana’s curse, and definitely not for long. Merlin thinks he could lay with Arthur forever. His thoughts make Merlin’s face heat, but he continues to look away, his face steeled cool.

“Let’s go,” Merlin bites out as he begins to assemble his pack. He pretends to be entirely consumed with his task, but he watches his king out of his eye, still silent and unmoving. “Arthur, it’s time to go,” he tries again, hoping for even an illusion of obedience, but getting nothing.

“I’m the king here, Merlin. I get to decide when we leave, remember?” Merlin is not amused, turning to Arthur for a second before beginning to rouse Seb and Archie. His king is next to him before he can blink, his fingers on Merlin’s own, light but forceful. “No. Sleep, Merlin. I- I don’t know what that was, because you won’t tell me. I can’t do much for you considering, but this I fully intend to.” Arthur takes a deep breath, and he looks almost afraid. “You look awful,” he says plainly, his arms outstretched and his palms open wide in surrender.

The sorcerer glares. “We don’t have _time_ , Arthur. We are on a quest. And if I recall correctly, I already mucked it up once. I’m not going to do it again.”

Arthur’s eyes harden, and when he speaks, there’s something in his voice that sends a shiver down his spine and compels him to obey; his king’s eyes speak leagues more than his words do. “Lay down and sleep, Merlin. We have all the time we need,” Arthur says, not hesitating as he steps forward. His face is passive as he pushes Merlin gently to the ground.

Merlin stares up at the sky before turning to Arthur. The sky doesn't compare. When he speaks it’s soft, words that aren’t meant to be heard but are anyway; words said not in a rage, but in resignation. Those words that he’s heard a million times by disapproving voices that echoed for years in his head and heart. “There’s no ‘we.’ _My_ time is running out.” There’s silence; it’s angry, burning cold in its hurt.

“There always was. For me. And if, well, if…” Arthur huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Just…go to sleep, will you, Merlin? I want answers when you wake up. I- You said you wouldn’t lie to me anymore. You promised.” Arthur’s eyes are so blue in the morning light. His face is more wrinkled than Merlin remembers, and a little older. Arthur has a dusting of a beard along his jaw, the same color as the pale lashes that now rest on golden tanned cheeks.

Merlin knows he promised; he knows he promised never to lie to Arthur again after Merlin finally showed Arthur his magic. Well, Merlin had virtually no say in the matter anyway, no possible way he could have distracted Arthur in any other. It had been a month since Uther’s death and Arthur was having a bad day. Lancelot had returned that morning and Gwen had run to him from Arthur’s side. Only Merlin remained, standing behind his king as Arthur watched Gwen welcome the knight home. Arthur had stormed into his chambers that night so quickly Merlin hadn’t even the time to stop the armor from cleaning itself and the sword from sharpening on its own. Then the yelling began, the swearing, the loud clanging as Arthur threw his gauntlets at the wall - his crown onto the ground. Merlin froze, his fingers stilled from mending the tear in Arthur’s shirt. “A-Arthur?” He tried, his tongue feeling too big and clumsy for the fragility of the moment - of Arthur.

His king turned to him, his eyes a steel blue with the sheen of unshed tears. “How can I help?” Merlin felt the words fall from his lips. Those were his first words, not ‘what’s wrong,’ or ‘what happened.’ Those things didn’t matter; Merlin would help his king no matter why or when, only how. Arthur didn’t stop throwing things as the tears streaked down his face, torrents of all the pent up sadness and anger that had been festering deep inside of him. Merlin didn’t try to stop him either, like others would. He knew what it felt like to want to break something, to want to fracture something beautiful in two. The sorcerer was almost tempted to tell Arthur, _‘Wait, you’re already breaking something.’_ He was tempted to lay Arthur’s head on his chest and say, _‘There. Can’t you hear it cracking?’_

It was only when Arthur opened the windows, and gods he had the set of knives Uther gave him for his ninth birthday, that Merlin caught his hands with his own. Their breathing was ragged and Merlin had to pry the knives from Arthur’s hands, leaving both of their fingers red and bloody as he tossed them aside. Arthur’s eyes were glued on the city and his people below them, smiling and laughing around the village fires, singing and dancing. When Merlin saw Gwen pull Lancelot into her arms and twirl them both around the flames, pressed closer together than friends really should, the sorcerer caught his king’s eyes. Merlin couldn’t seem to breathe as his eyes grew golden and the stars above them glittered, mirrored copies appearing above his outstretched fingertips.

Merlin did stupid little things then, things that always brought him comfort when he was younger. Merlin formed dragons, knights, and wizards out of the stars; his designs reflected perfectly in the night sky. Arthur said nothing. His gaze alternated between Merlin’s eyes, the stars in his hands, and those in the sky. It was only later, after Merlin had begun to relax, that Arthur’s eyes began to droop and his posture slouched from standing so long that Merlin pulled them both to the bed. He tucked Arthur in, and he was almost tempted to press a kiss to the blond’s forehead. He didn’t. When Merlin made to leave, a calloused hand grabbed his. Merlin’s very heart seemed to stop beating, but he calmed himself and turned to gaze at his king. Arthur has risen up on his elbows now, his eyes everywhere but on Merlin’s. Arthur’s voice was quiet when he spoke, but Merlin’s heart was loud enough for them both.

“Can you make a unicorn?”

The sorcerer slid in next to Arthur, and that night, with stars shining in the dark canopy of the bed, he drew pictures in the stars for them both. “Yeah,” Merlin had said, his grin wide and happy. “For you, Arthur? Anything.” He had meant it; along with the promise he made to his king the next morning, with Arthur’s head on his chest.  


*

Merlin blinks; there’s that cracking in his chest again. “I know I did, Arthur, but I also promised someone that I’d do anything and everything I could to keep your sorry arse safe.”

Arthur shifts closer, and this time he sits cross-legged by Merlin’s side, reaching out hesitantly to smooth the bunched blankets across Merlin’s shoulders. When he doesn’t move away, Arthur leaves it there. The sorcerer can practically hear the blond thinking. “Who?” At Merlin’s raised eyebrow, Arthur blushes. “I mean… Who did you promise?”

Their eyes catch and hold when Merlin answers, “Me. I promised myself.” Arthur is quiet, his palm rubbing circles into Merlin’s shoulder subconsciously, even though it’s the only thing Merlin _can_ notice.

“Sleep now, Merlin. We have time.”

And this time when the sorcerer closes his eyes, he does.

  


When Merlin opens his eyes, the light is almost blinding. The sorcerer hears that delicious hum of the place between sleep and waking, and Merlin can’t help but marvel at how rested he feels. How completely awake. Merlin’s mind travels and he realizes he doesn’t remember a thing - not a single memory from when he fell asleep. Merlin lurches awake, the feeling of a glamour-stripped body searing into his consciousness. Who knows how long it has been since it had faded? Merlin scrambles for his pack, searching for the rock he had charmed reflective. When he finds it, he lets out a sigh of relief, his shaking fingers clenched tightly around the rough stone. When the sorcerer raises it to look at himself, he sees the dark beneath his eyes the-

Somebody steps out of the forest, right behind him, and for a second all he can see is blue. Arthur smiles and his light blue eyes twinkle as his gloved fingers ruffle Merlin’s hair and hold the mirror, their fingers intertwined. “See? All you needed was a little sleep.”

“Yeah,” Merlin breathes, his lips twitching upwards. “Yeah.”

They leave camp not long after, Merlin and his king on the road again. They ride close together. Arthur pokes Merlin in the side whenever he lags too far behind and makes a habit of throwing apples or whatever edible item he manages to find, yelling, “People are going to think I _starve_ you. Eat, damn you, eat!” But Merlin honestly doesn’t mind. He just laughs and teases the king right back.

“But I do starve, sire! You leave no food for the rest of us.” Arthur glowers and chucks a berry at him that goes soaring above Merlin’s head and into the bushes as the horses continue to trudge along.

“I am _not_ fat,” Arthur declares pompously. But Merlin can see the smile twitching at the corner of his pink lips.

The sorcerer merely smirks. “I never said you were. Besides, maybe if you were a better shot…” Another berry comes flying and hits Merlin square in the cheek. He laughs, catching it and holding it out to Seb, who sniffs at it and deems it uninteresting. She curls quickly back to sleep in his pocket. Merlin shrugs and pops the berry into his mouth. He smiles at Arthur as he chews, who simply rolls his eyes, his cheeks flushed. Merlin knew Arthur only pretended to miss anyway.

When they pass a village they see a farmer with a stature not unlike Percival’s and Arthur coughs, catching Merlin’s eye pointedly. Merlin raises his eyebrows at his king, who is making these vague hand gestures around his arm and chest. The sorcerer never did understand those bloody signals. Arthur sighs, slapping an open palm to his forehead. That really doesn’t help Merlin understand _anything_ because frankly, the gesture’s more worthy of Merlin. “I _mean_ … that farmer has um… he has quite… his muscles are quite… _nice_ , don’t you think?” Merlin glares at the blond, and quite pointedly ignores his squawk of, “What did I say? What did I say?” when he sends Archie to blow fire around Arthur’s head.

This continues every time the pair passes a village. The king points out a passing man’s attribute that results in an array of magical punishments from a personal raincloud following over Arthur’s head, to turning his armor pink. Arthur coughs, and Merlin groans out loud; he knows what’s coming. But internally, Merlin is pleased and smiling, and not only a little bit amused. It’s interesting to say the least, to keep Arthur guessing as to just what sort of man he likes. “He has nice hair,” Arthur says, oh so very subtly as he points the man out with his sword.

“Put that down!” Merlin says frantically, seeing the suspicious glances they’re getting now.

“What are you- Oh!” Arthur laughs sheepishly, slipping his sword back into its sheath. “Oops.” He glances around at the rude gazes and then back at Merlin’s pointed one. He puffs out his chest and sits up straighter. “We can take ‘em!” Merlin rolls his eyes, but the smile playing on his features is blatantly obvious. His gaze is drawn back to the man pointed out, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. The man is blond, his hair looking almost gold in the sunlight, but not quite. From behind Merlin could almost mistake the man for Arthur. Almost. Arthur’s hair was more… more… just _more_. When he turns back to his king, Arthur’s eyes betray his curiosity.

Merlin shrugs indifferently. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve seen better.” And if the sorcerer’s eyes slide purposefully to Arthur’s own beautiful hair, well, it’s hardly Merlin’s fault. The king’s cheeks are flushed and his smile wide and oddly sappy. Merlin really can’t help what he says next as he drives Iggy into a faster trot. “Gwaine’s hair is lovely.” The indignant huff and following sounds of grumbling and ‘bloody Gwaine’ behind him are unmistakable, and Merlin laughs out loud.

When they stop for the night, it’s at a lake. The water is the very tint of an evening, blue-grey sky that Merlin loves so much. Iggy and Hengroen are grazing close, and all the sorcerer has to do is reach out to brush his fingers on her smooth downy coat. When they build the fire that evening, they build it closer than they had been before; this time Merlin and Arthur even sit next to each other. They eat well too, with the fish Merlin caught (well, that Arthur caught. Merlin was in the water and they swam right up! It was barbaric) and the assorted berries Merlin managed to find. So it is with a full belly and a heart full of laughter that Arthur decides to corner Merlin. The king always did seem to have some sort of scheme up his sleeve after all.

“Merlin,” Arthur’s voice is warm with friendship, and soft from their close proximity. His eyes beseech Merlin; those eyes make the sorcerer’s breathing quicken and his heart begins a symphony that plays only when Arthur’s around. Merlin is almost sure his heart had composed it especially for Arthur; no other has come close to its likeness. Arthur’s hands move absentmindedly in front of the other as Seb runs across them, an endless race. Archie looks on. “Please,” his king whispers, his lips forming the word like a prayer - a dying man’s last wish. And may the gods help Merlin, because he truly has not a single ray of hope now. The sorcerer has never been one to deny his king anything; not when he asks, and especially not when he asks like this. There’s a burning underneath his tongue before he can even begin to speak, a warning from his magic not to lie, but Merlin barely even acknowledges it. He wants to tell Arthur this; he wants Arthur to know. So Merlin tells him.

He tells Arthur everything, from his inability to sleep, to the magic and the glamours. The sorcerer even tells him about Morgana, Morgause, and Mordred. He tells Arthur about how he had planned to trick Arthur into going back to Camelot and letting himself go on to meet them. Merlin tells Arthur about the poison that is deadly only to him in his very breath. And most importantly, Merlin tells him why he’s going to meet the three in the first place. He sees the betrayal flick across Arthur’s face at the mention of all his lies, of course he does, so this - this he has no choice but to confess.

“I came here for you, Arthur,” Merlin whispers. His voice is altogether too quiet in the heart of evening, with the frogs beginning to sing and the splash of water as birds dive for fish. It’s not night - not yet. “I thought if I joined them, they wouldn’t try to hurt you.” And there it is, the sentence of Merlin’s life. He does all for Arthur, always for Arthur, giving up everything for Arthur. Merlin isn’t even sure how to be angry about it anymore. It’s just life now - his life. The sorcerer can’t help but wonder if this is how Gwaine feels about him. If this is why Gwaine defied Arthur and went looking for Merlin anyway. If this is what keeps Gwaine fighting everyday, fighting Morgana, fighting Morgause, fighting Mordred. Sometimes Gwaine is forced to fight Merlin too, when he is lost in the darkness and doesn’t want to pull and fight his way back out. In those moments, because of this, whatever ‘this’ is, Gwaine fights for Merlin.

Gwaine never loses. Is it because of this? This feeling in the pit of his stomach and in the center of his chest that sometimes hurts so much, Merlin is sure he must be dying.

Merlin isn’t sure what ‘this’ is.

Arthur says nothing and Merlin can see the old Arthur, his young prince who would rage and yell that he didn’t need to be taken care of. Merlin can see him, but only barely, like a reflection of a friend, similar and yet completely different. In some ways though, Arthur hasn’t changed at all. That makes Merlin smile harder than he has in awhile. “You should have told me, Merlin. About all of it,” is all he says, and Merlin can do nothing more than nod, because yes, it is true. When did Arthur get so bloody smart? Was it when Merlin wasn’t looking? But no, Merlin thinks, a small smile playing on his lips - Merlin’s always looking.

“Yes, I should have,” he says, dark blue eyes watching Arthur, his king, his friend, his destiny. “But I’m not sorry for doing what I did.” Arthur raises his eyebrows at this, but Merlin continues. “Nor am I sorry for telling you all of this either.” Arthur meets Merlin’s gaze evenly, his blue eyes peeking past half-lids. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he gulps the water from their skin greedily. Rivulets of water meandering down his tan skin, their paths delayed by long fair hairs and Merlin cannot help but wonder if they are smooth to the touch. The sorcerer tears his gaze away from his king and forces himself to watch the lavender and bluebells sway in the breeze; he can almost hear the carillons ringing.

“I’m glad you’re not. You shouldn’t be. I… I tell you everything, Merlin.” There is a pause and then, “Well, not _everything_.” Another pause, and Merlin really can’t keep his eyes from trailing back to Arthur, whose flushed gaze darts away. Arthur is looking at his boots now. “I used to,” is what the king says, his crown laying somewhere on some pillow beside some woman. Merlin can’t remember, not when those eyes are looking at him like this.

“Not anymore?” The sorcerer asks, their eyes catching together and seizing, both men not wanting to look away. Not yet, and maybe even not ever. Merlin certainly wouldn’t mind.

“No, not anymore,” Arthur whispers, and he finds that he can’t look away either. Merlin opens his mouth to ask why. His breaths flutter past his pale parted lips, but Arthur beats him to the punch, speaking first. His eyes flicker away to his clenched hands, his fingers wringing themselves together. “Merlin…” He begins, his brow furrowing in concentration as his teeth gnaw at his bottom lip. “How- how did you know you were… that you liked… men?” Arthur takes a deep breath, forcing his eyes to meet Merlin’s again. “I mean- I mean have you… always known?”

Merlin’s eyes widen and he can’t help the blur of shock, joy and that unnamed feeling that shoots through him. He pauses, humming under his breath as he thinks. Merlin isn’t sure how to answer at first, remembering first the blur of excitement of his first kiss.

Her name was Iris, and they were both barely nine years old when they met. Merlin was in the meadow where he always played, making daffodils grow and turning them into little, pale-yellow butterflies that would extinguish like golden flames once they touched skin. There’s a clearing in Ealdor where daffodils grow year round, even in the winter. Iris was a slight girl, small for her age, but that’s all Merlin can remember. He can’t remember the color of her eyes or of her hair. All Merlin remembers was the quick touch of her lips on his, in the view of the entire village, putting the rumors and speculation that he was far more interested in boys than girls to rest immediately.

Not many people knew about their plan behind the kiss though, or that Iris and Merlin had only platonic feelings for each other. Merlin was far more interested in boys, and Iris didn’t see anything wrong with it, so they devised a plan to quell the rumors. Not to mention that Iris had a crush on Will and wanted to make him jealous. Merlin can’t remember if they succeeded or not.

His second kiss was not as successful. The boy - gods, Merlin hasn’t thought about this in ages - his hair was a light brown, his eyes a cold slate of grey. His lips were angry and when Merlin kissed him, the boy had bitten back. It had hurt, but the punch to his jaw after hurt even worse that anything ever had. The rumors started up again not soon after that. The sorcerer jolts from his reverie with a poke in the arm from his king. Arthur’s eyebrows are raised, his gaze searching and curious. Merlin lets out a nervous chuckle, a flush blooming on his pale cheeks.

“Yeah, I guess I always knew but… gender never mattered much to me even back then.” Merlin turns his gaze away from Arthur and onto the lake, where the last ray of sun begins to sink under the weight of the night sky, and with it would come their stars. “I didn’t know what I was searching for,” he says, “so I had to look absolutely everywhere.” Merlin feels a hand on his knee and he turns back to Arthur, his heart pounding in his chest.

“I notice you’ve stopped looking,” Arthur says, trailing off. His silence is a question before he decides to voice it. “Have you found it?” There ‘it’ is again. That feeling he gets when he meets Arthur’s eyes, that burning in his heart and under his tongue that never ceases to subside. Merlin doesn’t lie, not this time.

“Yes,” he whispers, wanting nothing more than to be closer. Nothing more, simply… closer. “Yes, I think I’ve found it.” Merlin breathes, his entire body is angled and aligned with Arthur’s. The burning under his tongue goes away.

Arthur presses his side into Merlin, layers and layers upon fabric and clothes between them. Merlin finds that he wants nothing more than to feel Arthur’s fingers hard on his, Arthur’s tongue on pale, soft skin, and those lips on his own. “Merlin,” his king breathes, and Merlin can feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek. “I think I’ve found it too.”

The cold wind is not a caress this time, but a cool warning - a reminder that what Merlin wants, what he truly needs, can never be. Instead of pressing kisses to his king like he wants to, the sorcerer ducks his head. The words come to his lips, unbidden, but he means every word. “The queen is lucky, sire.”

Arthur flinches away at the formal address, his lips tightening into a mere line. It’s silent, but not for long. When Arthur speaks, his voice is hushed and whispered. Heavy words for the fragile night, to be whispered with the utmost cautions, lest they break it. “It’s not- It's not Guinevere, Merlin.” Merlin’s head snaps up at Arthur’s words and the sorcerer scarcely dares to breathe. “It- It’s you.” Merlin lets the air in his lungs escape, but the minute he begins breathing again, he can’t seem to calm. His breathing becomes shallow and ragged, his mind races. This isn’t their destiny - this shouldn’t have happened. _‘This is wrong_ ’ is all that runs through Merlin’s head, but frankly he doesn’t care anymore. With every beat of his heart Merlin knows this has been inevitable. They have been inevitable from the beginning, no matter who or what drives them apart - even if sometimes they’re the ones pushing the other away. Merlin is so tired of running after Arthur, and running away from him.

His king intertwines their fingers, Merlin’s pale and white against the dark brown of Arthur’s gloves. It’s about time they walked side by side, isn’t it? Arthur lets out a shaky laugh, his blue eyes wide, as if shocked by his own admission. “God help me, but it’s you, Merlin. It’s always been you.”

There’s a series of snaps, and Merlin thinks he really should have expected this. Nothing ever goes right for him anyway; he really isn’t renown for his brilliant luck. Dozens of vines from the weeping willow nearby whip through the air, their soft elfin leaves no longer pretty and innocent as they sway with the wind. The willow’s vines knot themselves around Arthur’s limbs, binding his wrists and legs as they tug him away from Merlin. Arthur lets out a confused shout, his eyes wide in panic. He’s about to call out for Merlin, but Merlin’s eyes are already glowing a fierce gold. His hands and fingers are a blurred flurry as he struggles to tear the vines away. His king lets out a strangled cry as one thick vine wraps around his neck and begins to tighten, cutting off his air. There’s a cool breeze that blows by just then, oh cruel irony. Arthur’s mouth opens and closes, sad, desperate attempts for another second of life. Every time Merlin snaps a series of vines, more raise up to replace them. His anger and panic is growing inside him as he feels the tears prick at his eyes. The sight of Arthur slowly dying right in front of him is almost enough to tear him to shreds. “Arthur!” He cries, his voice ragged. He wants to do more, he has to, but he feels magical binds hold him back.

A voice sounds from the woods and his captors step out from the foliage. “It seems that I was wrong, Merlin. Looks like your little king here wants to kiss you too,” Morgana says, letting out a little laugh. Morgause is smiling, her eyes a permanent gold as she twists vine after vine after vine. Soon they grow thorns that dig into Arthur’s neck, the crimson blood rising to the surface in quick beads. Mordred on the other hand, only watches, his dark eyes cold and unblinking.

“Something’s changed,” Morgana continues, her lips pursing, her eyebrows furrowing as if she’s genuinely confused. “You were going to die, Arthur. Soon. You were going to die cold and alone in a drafty corridor where the servants wouldn’t find you for a week.” The sorcerer struggles to escape his magical binds, and he sees from the corner of his eye that Arthur’s trying to do the same. Blood is trickling down Arthur’s lip as he bites through it in an effort to keep his cries back when the vines grip tighter, the thorns cutting through cloth and into soft skin. Morgana steps closer, her dark velvet dress dragging along the forest floor. Her eyes are different than before, a thin film covers them, dark gold in color.

She notices the sorcerer watching her and smiles sadly. “I’ve seen things in the future, Merlin, and they come with a price, prices that always leave scars. Scars that can sometimes be seen.” The sorcerer shivers; he doesn’t want to imagine the scars that can’t. Morgana peers at him through her golden-film eyes as she comes to a stop right in front of him. Mordred does move then, coming to stand by Merlin’s side, a hand outstretched between his mistress and Merlin. Merlin is puzzled, but he can’t keep the rays of hope from shining through. Maybe Mordred would help them now, maybe everything would be alright. But Mordred barely looks at him. The boy’s eyes are dark and sharp as they gaze at Morgana, and then Morgause.

“No more games.” Mordred’s voice is cold, harsh, and biting, full of command that leaves no room for argument. Morgana and Morgause do not; they step back, Morgause’s eyes returning to their normal color as the vines stop their relentless attack on Arthur’s person. Arthur slumps to the floor, his clothing wet and bloody and sticking to his cold and clammy skin, covered in goosebumps. A raw shout escapes from Merlin just then. The sight of his king lying fallen and broken on the ground - bloody, beaten - snaps something deep inside of the sorcerer. There’s a churning in his gut, that feeling and the pain it inflicts is sharper and more pronounced than ever.

Merlin doesn’t even notice when the binds that hold him slip loose. The sorcerer’s eyes grow gold, his magic slicing out of his very skin and through every pore, expelling and banishing. Tendrils, gold and sharp, flare out of his body. His magic is angry. He feels it bubbling with rage beneath his skin, burning and searing beneath his soft flesh, cauterizing the wounds Morgana’s curses have left on his body and his magic. Merlin feels every dark spell leave his body. The poison drips off his skin and down his cheeks, clean and clear like water. But Merlin knows better. Arthur is quiet under his hands when Merlin reaches him, his very fingertips glowing gold when he touches Arthur’s skin. The very feel of it makes Merlin shudder - the very idea that he can touch Arthur - that a single kiss would not kill him.

Morgana is saying something behind him, her voice growing sharper and higher as her words get more frantic - crazier. Mordred only watches through bored dark eyes, but he isn’t even looking at Morgana. He’s watching Merlin instead. The sorcerer pays no attention as Morgause tries to calm her sister down; he has eyes only for his king. His magic knows what it’s doing before he does, sliding into Arthur’s skin, gentle and warm - healing, mending all that is broken. There’s a buzzing in Merlin’s head, loud but muffled at the same time. He doesn’t pay any mind to the screaming around him, the same screams that have haunted his memories all these nights. All that matters is Arthur, Arthur who is lying too still, too quiet.

Merlin really cannot help but watch as a drop of rain drips down into the corner of his king’s mouth. The sorcerer catches it with his tongue, his lips meeting Arthur’s in a kiss full of warmth, blood, and that feeling that makes his stomach flutter and his hands shake. It’s full of love, a love that Merlin could never dream of replacing. Merlin’s eyes flicker closed, loving - there’s that word again - the feeling of Arthur’s lips cushioned against his. Arthur gasps awake and Merlin pulls away quickly, his cheeks flushing. Arthur’s hands clambers up Merlin’s sides to rest at the base of the sorcerer’s neck. His fingers stretch, luxuriating in the hope and the warm comforting touch of a friend, and maybe a lover. Their eyes lock, and gods, he can feel the love pooling in his chest, the very thing keeping his heart beating.

Arthur lets out a soft laugh, a mere exhale of breath but still so misplaced in a time such as this. Their eyes meet, blue on blue, but they both stay silent; there are really no words left to be said. No words they could say would ever be enough, and those three words that come a little closer than the rest do not belong to Merlin, or to Arthur. The sorcerer and his king love each other too much to say them, for they will lose so much they have worked so hard to gain. Those words are already somebody else’s, to others who have earned them with years of tears and heartache. Merlin and Arthur do not deserve them, not yet. Arthur’s belongs to Guinevere, and Merlin’s belongs to… Well, the sorcerer has a good idea who. Those words don’t belong to them yet, but hopefully, in another lifetime, they will. So in this one they do what they always do - what they always have - because it’s the thing that keeps them going, that they fight for. It’s the only thing they have left to do. They fight.

Arthur gets up from the ground, his sword screaming for penance as he unsheathes her. Her blade is thirsty and hungry for blood to replace her master’s own. Merlin’s magic is like it in many ways. The tendrils are sharp and smooth, golden blades of a warrior, weapons of a knight marching against destiny. The pair, together again (have they ever been apart?), whirl on their enemies: their friends, the people they trusted before everything went wrong. Before Merlin and Arthur understood the word ‘betrayal.’

Morgause stands in front of her sister, the black lamb who got led astray, and tries to protect her. The blonde’s spells are routine and Merlin is almost bored until he sees Arthur charge at her from the corner of his eye. She tries to send him flying backwards, but Merlin keeps him upright as Arthur’s sword begins to dance, her blade winking seductively to all enemies who dare venture too close. Merlin faces Morgana, his own magic colliding with hers.

“He will die, Merlin - he will die because you will not be there to save him,” Morgana hisses through white teeth gritted behind venomous red lips.

“I’ll never leave him,” Merlin says right back. He feels no shame for the neediness both his magic and he have, the constant need to be around Arthur, to care for him and love him. _“Cume thoden,”_ Merlin cries, and the wind begins to pick up. The word barely grazes past his throat when the ground begins to rock and crack. The trees shudder and the lake pulsates as the waves lap onto the shore, higher and higher. The whirlwind is as much of a distraction as keeping Morgana talking, so he continues, his words dripping off of his lips before he can think of something better.

“You will have no choice, Merlin. You will have to do so soon enough. Help us, Merlin. Help us, and we could move the stars together.” The sorcerer’s eyes narrow and harden to a dark, steel blue.

There’s a shriek that sounds from behind him and then he sees a flash of red, and then blonde. Morgana lets out scream, her fingers thrown open, magic flowing off her fingertips as her eyes glow completely gold. She flings it at Merlin, but it does nothing but fall into the ground. The soil sinks the magic in slowly, the gold falls into the ground like rain after the clouds had gone. Poison begins to fall from the sky just then, colorless and wet; Merlin has to remind himself that its just rain. The sorcerer keeps his mouth shut anyway - you never know.

“I move the stars for no one,” is what Merlin says as he watches his king holding Morgause at the point of his blade. His brow is caked with blood and his skin is peppered with dark bruises. Morgause fares far worse. He recognizes the beginning of Morgana’s scream before she has the chance to curse him; he’s used to the sound after so many nights with it as his only companion. It doesn’t take much after that, when Merlin thinks back on it, just the simple bending of his will. It’s a poison he wishes into existence, a poison deadly only to the one with the deadliest intentions in her heart. The rain falls. So does poison.

The thud is soft and muted behind Morgause’s scream, and Merlin can’t help but wince at the sound - so much louder and hoarse than Morgana’s were. The blond is sobbing, swearing at Arthur and his sorcerer as she promises to exact her revenge. Merlin isn’t usually so cruel, but when he sees her fingernail dig and tear into the skin of Arthur’s leg, the sorcerer cannot help the words that fall from his lips - like poison. “It was her very own personal brand of poison, Morgause. Aren’t you proud?” Arthur catches his gaze, and Merlin falls silent. The sorcerer understands what Arthur means; there is no need to be cruel. He and Arthur had won, and they had not. There was no more need of sharp words to torture and inflict pain. Merlin feels a little guilty - just a little.

“Do you yield?” He hears Arthur ask, his voice impartial, his face a calm mask. Morgause ignores him though, instead beginning to rise to her feet with eyes growing golden where she is undoubtedly trying to cast a spell. There’s a rustle not a second later and another voice rings through the air. A voice Merlin had forgotten was there at all.

“She will yield,” Mordred says as he walks out of the forest. The boy places a hand on Morgause’s shoulder and she freezes, as if stunned. Mordred’s eyes betray nothing though, as he scrutinizes Arthur and turns finally to Merlin. The sorcerer hears Mordred’s voice inside his head. Invisible fingers, thin and soft, trail down his neck and cheek. _“Goodbye, Emrys. I know that someday, we’ll meet again.”_ The boy smiles at him, lips curving upwards slightly before he jerks his head towards the forest, and Morgause rises as if on cue. Merlin can’t help the goosebumps that rise on his skin or the shiver that racks his body. Mordred begins to walk away when Arthur calls out to him.

“Mordred, do you yield?” Arthur’s brow is quirked at the boy, puzzled and more than a little curious.

Mordred only smiles in response, his sharp teeth peeking out from behind his lips. “You know my name,” He says first, sounding almost pleasant. “It will serve you well to remember it, King Arthur.” He makes to move again, but stops and turns back to Merlin and Arthur slightly. “Of course not, Arthur. How much fun would _that_ be?” Mordred tilts his head, dark eyes wide and unblinking, before both he and Morgause are gone.

There’s a pause. The camp seems so empty now, the carcass of an enemy - an old friend - lays on the ground. For that is how Morgana should he remembered, as an old friend and not an enemy. Merlin sighs, moving towards the body, and Arthur and Merlin do what is right. It’s all too familiar, a dark haired girl in a boat, a girl he had once loved a long time ago. A boat is lit on fire as it floats into the center of the lake, and there it will sink into the abyss. But for now, Morgana is bright and beautiful like she once was. For now, the flame bright on the backdrop of black sky - Morgana is a star.

  


Merlin and Arthur huddle close in the campsite, their legs intertwined for warmth, their fingers tightly clenched together as they both revel in the sheer proximity of it all. It’s beautiful, but it hurts a little to know that this won’t be for much longer. They will be friends though, they will keep everything else they have gained and every moment will be treasured. They love each other too much to ever let this get between them, especially when they both know it cannot be. Not in this lifetime - but maybe another. They speak, hushed and quiet in the night, as they watch the last of the embers float up into the sky and then down onto the water - extinguished. “Why didn’t you kill him?” Merlin asks, his face buried in the nape of Arthur’s neck, warm and comfortable.

Arthur pauses before he speaks. His fingers still in Merlin’s hair briefly before continuing their gentle combing of his dark locks. “Did you want me to?”

Merlin blinks, the flames bright even behind his eyelids. He has to consider the question for a second longer, but when he answers he knows it’s the truth. “No, but I would have.”

Arthur merely hums, his lips ghosting the top of Merlin’s head. “Because there’s always a chance they’ll learn from the mercy I’ve shown them, and continue in kind.”

Merlin expects this sort of answer. Of course he does. Brave, noble, disgustingly beautiful, Arthur. When the sorcerer speaks next, his voice is even quieter and the king has to strain his ears to hear. “If I told you, you will fall by his hands - would you change your mind?”

Arthur is silent, and he stops his combing of Merlin’s hair, content to rest his cheek on the soft smooth hair. “That depends,” the king replies, luxuriating in the warmth of Merlin’s body beside his own - a luxury he hasn’t had in far too long. The sorcerer’s silent ‘on what?’ does not go unheard, and Arthur answers. “On if you’ll be there to catch me.”

Merlin stills, and when he pulls away his eyes are filled with a million things that these two cannot say - things that they cannot say _yet_. Merlin presses a soft kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, where his king turns his head to pillow them together, soft and warm, making memories for colder nights alone. “Always,” Merlin murmurs onto Arthur’s lips, and for a second the sorcerer is afraid the king hasn’t heard him. But when Arthur pulls away his eyes are wet and his lips are pulled into that smile that makes Merlin’s heart play that symphony.

“Then no, I wouldn’t,” Arthur replies. The sorcerer and his king pull each other close that night, soft chaste kisses and indulgent stroking of soft skin. That night, Merlin and Arthur fall asleep together, wrapped up in a world entirely their own. Above them, their stars sing of their love.

  


There are happy squeaks as Merlin sets Seb down on the familiar stone floor, the scratching of her nails sound as she scurries off. Archie simply looks up at him from his perch on Merlin’s shoulder with a look as if to say ‘there is no way you are putting me down on that filthy floor, you pathetic human.’ Merlin rolls his eyes and Archie yawns, his wooden wings taking to the air not a minute later. The dragon flies off into Merlin’s room where he will probably join Seb in her slumber in Merlin’s hat. As much as Archie likes to act like he doesn’t like the little mouse, Merlin knows better. Archie’s very protective of Seb, going so far as to blow fire at a stranger when they get too close her. The sorcerer can’t help but think that as nonchalant as Archie acts, he has quite a big crush on Seb.

Merlin smiles and leans against his door, the familiar texture and bumps digging into the soft skin of his back. The sorcerer walks through the room slowly, his gaze and fingers dropping onto the little things that he’s missed. The small cot lies in the small alcove, the cot Gaius had slept on from the beginning to the very end. Merlin runs his fingers across the tables, the light powdering of dust coating his fingertips. The sorcerer begins to spell the room clean, the papers righting themselves and floating off the floor - his magic hasn’t worked so flawlessly in a long time. The golden vines loop around his wrists, caressing the soft skin there gently. His magic begins to stray over to the door, meandering away from their task and prodding at the crack beneath it. The sorcerer feels his heart swell; well, his magic certainly has personality, Merlin can give it that. “I know,” Merlin whispers, his fingers petting the gold tendrils that light warm sparks beneath his fingertips. “I miss him too.” There’s that twinkling of bells again, and Merlin hides a smile, his teeth gnawing on his lower lip to keep the huge grin from breaking across his face. “Don’t worry. We’ll be okay, you and I. We’ll be by his side, protecting him, just like we always have.” The wisps of magic return to their master after they’ve completed their task, sliding back under his skin and curling up around his heart, where the memories and feelings of their king lay. There, Merlin’s magic grows and thrives.

The sorcerer sighs as the warmth sinks into his skin, sending butterflies into his tummy, not unlike the way Arthur makes him feel. The ride back to Camelot had been a solemn one, before Merlin had nearly pushed Arthur off his horse in frustration. There they were, wasting the time they had together - he couldn’t let it go on. Merlin didn’t want to waste another minute. Their four-day ride back to Camelot was drawn out for as long as they dared. Mornings were filled with gentle kisses and caresses, afternoons filled with sun, swimming, riding, and eventually hunting. (Merlin tried to put it off as long as he could). Merlin feels closer to Arthur than he’s ever been.

“I’m sorry I stole Iggy. She’s the only one who doesn’t try to buck me off,” Merlin had said sheepishly, his face heating at Arthur’s amused gaze.

“Not that I blame them. You’re a horrid rider, Merlin,” Arthur had teased. Merlin pouted, which led to Arthur kissing him until the smile returned to his lips. Of course Merlin didn’t mind, and it wasn’t long till Merlin was laughing against his king’s lips as Arthur’s fingers fell to Merlin’s side, tickling him. “I gave her to you for a reason, Merlin,” Arthur said breathlessly, but when Merlin tried to speak, his king shot him a look. The sorcerer had seen that look many times, whenever Arthur tried to let Merlin in deeper inside and past his defenses, whenever Merlin’s babbling came close to making Arthur lose his nerve. Few are truly let in, after all.

“Mother acquired Iggy for me before I was born. She was supposed to be mine by the time I could ride. Mother… she wanted me to always have a piece of her with me, wherever I went, so that I could always return to her swiftly and safely.” Arthur’s gaze dropped lower and lower as he spoke until Merlin’s unable to catch his eyes at all. The sorcerer felt his insides warm and his cheeks pink. All he wanted to do was kiss his king happy, he knows not all of their problems could be fixed so easily - yet many could. Merlin’s fingers drew shapes and words on the palm of Arthur’s hand, soft pretty words that neither dared say.

“I gave her to you because… because maybe I hoped she’d bring you home to me safely too.” Arthur caught Merlin’s eyes and his cheeks blushed. “I’m sorry, it-it was stupid,” Arthur mumbled, ducking his head. Merlin let out the breath he was holding, that feeling shot through his body with every beat of his heart. The sorcerer said nothing, simply pulling his idiot to him and kissing him senseless. Merlin loves the feel of Arthur’s smiling lips against his own - he’d have it no other way.

Merlin liked nights with Arthur best. They’d lay together, warm as everything concerning Arthur seemed to be, and they’d whisper their dreams out into the night with their stars shining bright - they always looked close enough to catch. They talked about their dreams (each other, another chance, more time) until Merlin could dream again. The sorcerer dreams in black and white, of an Arthur made up of shades of grey with eyes such a lack of color it gave Merlin shivers. His touch is cold, lacking the warmth that the real Arthur has. But when Merlin woke, the first thing he saw is the bright blue of Arthur’s beautiful eyes, smiling down at him as he leans in for a kiss. Warm.

Their last kiss wasn’t far from the gates of Camelot, shaded by ferns that grow on the branches of towering trees. They leaned in for a single kiss, and one alone. Being that they were so close to Camelot, the guilt had begun to set in, the guilt that came with their betrayals: to Guinevere, to Gwaine, and even to Morgana, but most of all, their betrayal to themselves, to all they could have had. “This can’t happen again,” is what Arthur said in the shadows with Merlin, under the protections of the ferns. The sorcerer thinks he remembers his mother telling him that ferns are the protectors of secrets, but most of all, of secrets loves. Merlin used to think they were his friends; they protected secrets, and he had many to keep.

“It won’t,” is what Merlin said in reply, and if his voice cracked and his eyes watered, well, they were passing out of the shade now, and people could see. Arthur said nothing, so Merlin just blinked them away, dropping Iggy back to ride behind the king.

Arthur turned to look at him, eyes confused for a second, and then soft with that feeling neither of them should name. “You ride with me, Merlin, remember?” The sorcerer does.

Merlin and Arthur were greeted grandly with ‘my lord’ and ‘sire’ as they entered, and Merlin smiled when he saw Gwen sneaking in to the castle from the side. Her hand held her crown to her head while the other held up the folds of her skirt. The queen had soot from the coals in the blacksmith’s on her cheek, and Merlin could see the char on the end of her sleeve. The sorcerer bit the bottom of his lip nervously then before pausing at the doors to the throne room. Arthur paused, breaking his stride as he watched Merlin with concerned eyes. The king’s mouth opened to ask, but Merlin stopped him with a smile.

“I’m alright. I just need to take care of something first.” Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed for a second, his eyes sharp as if trying to tell if Merlin is telling the truth, but it isn’t a moment later before Arthur gave him a curt nod and entered the throne room alone. Merlin felt his body lurch forward, and he had to pull himself back, shocked at the yearning in his chest for Arthur’s presence. This was how things had to be - there was no other way. They could be friends, or nothing. Merlin and Arthur could never be lovers, not here, and definitely not now. The sorcerer clenched his fingers; his eyes squeezed shut at the unfairness of it all. No matter how much Merlin knows that this is his destiny, to be at Arthur’s side - the unseen, unfelt protector - it hurts. It hurts so much because Merlin wants to be so much more. But he can’t.

Merlin heard the slapping of slippers on the stone floor coming to a stop right in front of him before a hesitant, cautious voice spoke. “Merlin?”

The sorcerer opened his eyes, prepared to paste on the fake smile that he always wore, but he was surprised to find he slipped easily back into his trademark grin. Gwen’s face was shocked, but merely for a second before she grinned cautiously back. Merlin took her hand in his and began to fix the burnt material of her sleeve. “I saw you sneaking back into the castle, my lady,” was all Merlin said.

Gwen let out a soft laugh, her cheeks dusting lightly with pink. “You know how much I like the blacksmith’s, Merlin. I never have gotten used to all of…” She made a vague gesture with her hands around her as Merlin smiled, wiping the soot off her cheek. Her dark eyes watched him, her lips twitched into a bittersweet smile. “You’ve changed. We both have.”

It was a simple statement, a true one at that, but Merlin couldn’t keep the sad pangs that echoed in his heart. “We have, but maybe… maybe some things can return to the way they were.” The sorcerer smiled at his queen, fixing her crown and hair with his gentle delicate fingers.

The queen bit her bottom lip, her hands wrung in between them. “I hope so, Merlin.” It is then that there’s that unmistakable ring of armor - a knight walking - and the queen and sorcerer grinned at each other, thinking about a time long ago where they joked about knights sounding like little tin men.

A familiar face rounded the corner - Lancelot. His eyes burned into Gwen’s, a smile lit up his face before he saw Merlin and his eyes fell back to their previous guarded stare. “My queen. My lord.” Lancelot greeted when he neared, before heading into the throne room, his eyes fixed determinedly ahead.

Merlin was quiet, thinking, before he finally spoke, “He still loves you.”

Gwen nodded. “Yes.”

Merlin ran his fingers down the beautiful curls in Gwen’s dark hair. When he spoke, it was only a guess, his voice a venture. “And… you love him?”

Gwen was silent, her eyes darting elsewhere, and for a minute Merlin wondered if that was all the answer he was going to get, but then Gwen looks up, her eyes dripping tears. “Yes. Yes, I do.” She began to sob then, and Merlin was left with nothing but to gather her up into his arms, soothing down her hair with his hands. Betrayal isn’t new in the walls of Camelot, and neither is a love scorned - these are familiar in the hearts of many. Merlin wonders when all of them had gotten so lost, so stuck in the light that it’s blinded them all from what they truly want - from what would make them happy.

“I understand,” Merlin whispered, tears slipped from his own eyes.

Gwen pulled away just then, far away enough to look into her old friend’s eyes. The eyes of the man she trusted with her entire life - the eyes of whom she _trusts_. “Oh, Merlin. You love him.” It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer, only held his friend closer. Every tear was an apology, every question a confession. “What do we do?” It was a rhetorical question of course, because there’s nothing they can do. They care for their lovers too much.

Merlin stroked hair away from Gwen’s face awhile later. The tears subsided, and Merlin felt the warm hum of friendship ring inside him when she threatened him to call her Gwen again. Apparently the queen wasn’t above blackmail. (Supposedly Merlin hadn’t known where a helmet went when he first came to Camelot - but he highly doubted that. Gwen obviously was exaggerating it all. Obviously).

Merlin and Gwen clenched their fingers tightly together, their secrets held inside each other just as tight. Merlin wondered if there should have been ferns everywhere. “You ready?” He asked, and Gwen nodded. For a minute, they were simply Merlin the manservant and Gwen the blacksmith’s daughter again. For a minute, they were who they were supposed to be, who they _wanted_ to be, in a world where everyone had choices and made the right ones. And then Merlin was the sorcerer and Gwen was the queen again, but still they smiled. They did what they all do best, what they’ve always done best. They will fight for the futures they will have. They will fight for that feeling in their chests when they see that one person from across the room. They will all fight for fallen friends and the beautiful memories they all once had. They will fight for love. They will fight for love and they won’t be afraid.

*

Merlin remembers the conversation with fondness as he heads up the little stairs to his chambers, and what he sees makes his insides burn with warmth. The sorcerer can’t help but wonder where all the cold that was inside of him has gone. Merlin smiles down at his knight, his friend, his protector. Gwaine is curled up on Merlin’s bed, fast asleep, the circles under his eyes are darker than ever. Merlin traces them with his fingertips. Gwaine deserves so much more than a friend with a heart that didn’t want to beat, so much more than a friend who didn’t want it to. The sorcerer traces his laugh lines, and brushes the long strands of curly brown hair from his face. It doesn’t take much else for Gwaine to blink his eyes sleepily, dark eyes widening the minute he sees his friend.

“Merlin! You-you’re back! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Have you-” The sorcerer is laughing, a light happy sound that Gwaine hasn’t heard in years. The sound makes his heart beat in a rhythm he knows too well. “You look…” Gwaine is reaching out, his fingertips brushing the side of Merlin’s cheek, as if to convince himself that this isn’t a dream - that Merlin is real. How many times had Gwaine dreamt of this?

“Like I just defeated an evil sorceress and slept on the forest floor for days? Because I have, you know.” Merlin teases, poking Gwaine’s side, but the knight is having none of it.

Gwaine shoos Merlin’s hands away, his voice dropping to a whisper as he speaks. “You defeated…?” Merlin nods, and Gwaine shakes his head as if to clear it. “Good on you, mate. You look… you look like you again.” Gwaine smiles up at him, his lips pulled wide and those laugh lines are back again.

Merlin can only laugh, and he leans forward to hug Gwaine to him, his eyes shutting as he holds his best friend in his arms. “You’re my best friend,” Merlin says, letting go and pulling away, his lips pulled up in a smile. A smile that Arthur hasn’t gotten to see yet, tinged with nervousness and the fear of a sentiment not returned. A smile Arthur will never get to see, not in this lifetime. A smile that Gwaine has won, a smile that Gwaine has fought for. “I love you, Gwaine.” The words are light in his mouth and on his tongue; Merlin can’t help but imagine that this is what sunshine tastes like. Gwaine is blushing, his cheeks turning a bright pink and he ducks his gaze away from Merlin’s.

When the knight speaks, Merlin can’t help but notice it’s hoarse and raw. “Oh, you complete sap, Merlin.” The knight proceeds to force Merlin’s head under his arm to ruffle his hair, and then to tickle him to within an inch of his life. Later, when Merlin’s collapsed laughing on the mattress that Gwaine had pulled into his room, and said knight is lounging on his bed, Merlin asks him a question, his voice breathy with laughter.

“What were you dreaming of?” Merlin asks, looking up at his friend. “When I came in that is,” he adds.

Gwaine’s dark eyes watch him for a moment before he flops down on his back on Merlin’s back, their eye contact breaking. Merlin does the same. “Pheasants.”

A small smile cradles Merlin’s lips and the words fall off his tongue without much persuasion. “Was it a good dream?”

There’s silence, and then, “Yeah.”

“Good.” Merlin closes his eyes, snuggling into his pillow. The fabric is soft against his cheek and Merlin can hear the sounds of his friends around him. Seb is squeaking softly in her sleep, Archie is breathing deeply, his little wooden body expanding with every breath as smoke rises from his nostrils. And Gwaine... Gwaine’s snores are soft, quiet snuffles in the room, and Merlin honestly doesn’t mind. The noises swirl together, a warm lullaby to send the sorcerer off to sleep.

Mother - Merlin thinks, his last coherent thought as he slips into sleep - was wrong. This is what it feels like to be immortal, to _live_. It matters not what the stars think, for they sing only of the moments that live on inside his heart. The moments that Merlin decides are worthy to be kept. His moments with Seb, Archie, Iggy, Gaius, his mother, Will, Gwen, Gwaine, even Morgana will be kept; Merlin will keep everyone. Most of all, Merlin will keep Arthur. He will keep Arthur deep inside himself, inside his heart, for the stars will not be alone in their song. Merlin and his magic shall sing of this. He will care for Arthur, and protect him, always standing by his side. But if his heart will keep beating for the both them, if his breath will still catch in his throat when the candle lights up Arthur’s face…he doesn’t need to know that.

But he will. One day.

  


  


Epilogue

Merlin feels cool pillows against his face, but his body is warm beneath the sheets. His legs are intertwined with someone else’s. Their hands are wrapped tightly around his waist, his own thrown haphazardly above his head and across the other’s chest. Merlin blinks lazily, confused at the blaring song ringing through the air. A grumble passes his lips and Merlin buries his face into a warm shoulder. There’s a groan from next to him and Merlin simply elbows him in the side. “It’s your turn to hit snooze, Merlin.” He hears and his eyes open to the familiar voice. Arthur is looking back at him, his eyes bleary with sleep. The song keeps playing in the background as Arthur pushes close to press a kiss to Merlin’s lips, their mouths pillowed soft and warm together, the very essence of a good morning. When he pulls away, Merlin is smiling, but Arthur is back to turning to his side, throwing a pillow over his head. “I told you the runaway alarm clock was a bad idea.”

Merlin leans back into the pillows for a second, that feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach as his heart conducts its symphony. The words slip past his lips, and he sees Arthur smile. “I love you too, you lazy oaf. Now go turn that bloody thing off, and come back to bed. I miss you.” And how could Merlin deny Arthur that? He’s never really been good at denying him anything, if he’s telling the truth. Besides, Merlin wants to hold Arthur close and not let him go until morning - if then.

 

  
_here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows  
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart_

 _i carry your heart  
(i carry it in my heart)  
e e cummings_


End file.
